


Survival is a Fool's Gambit

by Ebozay



Series: Survival [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Azgeda Clarke Griffin, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Grounder Clarke Griffin, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2018-12-11 10:36:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 153,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11712660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebozay/pseuds/Ebozay
Summary: With the defeat of the Mountain the Coalition has fallen into an uneasy peace. Clarke finds herself once more thrown into the centre of a quiet war, where sides aren't so clear, and where alliances and loyalties are tested.





	1. Chapter 1

There’s a number of things Clarke finds annoying, that she finds herself despising in her Life. Perhaps the first is the long walk up the winding stairs to her quarters when the elevator breaks down in Polis tower, or maybe it’s the long wait for the elevator when it actually works. Maybe it’s the way Lexa’s gaze always shifts too quickly for her to catch in clan meetings, when her mind screams out in boredom as she once more listens to another ambassador drone on about Azgeda this, Azgeda that. But she thinks she’s found a new thing to despise, a new thing to dread and recoil from. 

And as she stumbles, as her foot drags on the icy ground beneath her, she curses out quietly, her knees throbbing and her hands tied behind her back. But it’s a laugh that rips from her lips as she recalls years past, when she had been marched from her cell on the Ark, when she had thought her last moments were to be in the cold embrace of an empty airlock. 

And so she doesn’t much care for the next few moments she is sure to experience. 

She feels the press of a large body besides her for only a moment before it, too, gives an ungainly lurch, a gruff curse all she hears as the person besides her falls forward, a groan of annoyance reaching her ears as her unfortunate companion stumbles blindly forward.

And it’s only a moment, only another few steps before rough hands grip her shoulders, before a foot lashes out and kicks behind her knees, sending her down onto the ground with a sickening thud. And it’s a quick rustle, a quick tugging of her hair and then her blindfold is removed, her eyes squinting in the harsh of the morning light.

And she knows she hates this. 

“It has been an honour to serve you, Clarke.” 

And it’s a sad note, a soft whisper of words that she hears. 

And so she turns her face to the voice beside her and she finds Torvun smiling kindly at her, his eyes closing as an acceptance spreads across his bloodied face, his cheek already resting against the cutting block laid out in front of them.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s a quiet exhale that whispers past her lips and a soft moment’s pause as she holds herself steady. And it’s strange, unfamiliar, something she never really thought she’d experience again. But perhaps she’s missed it, perhaps she’s envied the years she once lived. And so she breathes in deeply, her mind a quiet thing that settles and bends and shifts listlessly, that lingers on moment’s too cruel for her tired mind.

And so her fingers twist in her hair, her fingers pull at her braids and card through the rough knots she finds, a small grimace falling upon her lips. And it surprises her when she looks forward, when her eyes focus in front of her. Clarke finds shadows now live under her eyes, dark smudges that laugh in the quiet that she finds herself in. 

And maybe she deserves the sleepless nights, maybe she looks forward to the hours spent awake, when the stars shine dutifully in the sky, when the sun sleeps quietly below the horizon, when the moon smiles upon the trees and the grass and the birds that flitter in the dark of the night. If only because her mind slumbers and her thoughts are held back.

Her fingers pull at the furs around her shoulders then, a small shiver running down her spine as the cool air bites into her flesh. The furs drop to the floor, a small thud all she hears. Her chest binding comes next, a gentle sigh leaving her lips as it too falls to the ground to meet her furs. And it’s just another moment’s struggle before her pants and underclothes join her discarded furs and leathers. 

Her eyes wander for a moment, her eyes gaze upon the lines of her flesh, the muscles that slope and curve and gentle across her body. And it’s odd, it’s strange, it’s painful, and so she turns her gaze elsewhere, her eyes lingering somewhere in the dark of the room. 

And it’s only a short moment, her fingers curling around the handle as she turns, as she lets the sound of the water fill the room and as she lets it heat and steam and cloud her tired mind. She lets her hand linger under the stream for a moment, for too long, for long enough that she knows the water burns, that it stings and reddens her palm, and she knows it hot enough. 

And so it’s just a quiet curse, just a quiet gasp that leaves her lips as she steps under the steaming water, and she lets it burn her shoulders, scold her back and soothe her aching mind. And it’s an odd ritual, a strange habit she finds herself developing now, when it’s still dark, when only those on watch linger in waking moments, but she likes it, she enjoys the silence. If only because she can rest quietly, if only because she can linger lonesomely. If only…

If only what? 

Her fist clenches tightly, her hand coming to press against her lips as a sound chokes in her throat, as her mind screams out and as her flesh burns and scolds under the searing heat. 

And she hates it.

 

* * *

 

She wakes with a start, her heart a frantic rhythm within her chest and her eyes wild as they stare out into the dark of the room. Her eyes find the sleeping woman next to her, the exposed shoulder shining quietly in the candle light that flickers on the table. And it’s a quiet sigh, a gentle breath that burns against her lips and so she runs a hand over her face, her knuckles digging into her eyes painfully as her vision swims for a moment before settling. 

“Sorry,” and it’s a whispered breath she hears from the other end of the small room.

“It’s ok,” and Clarke shrugs for a moment as she slips from the furs, as she pulls her legs over the side of the bed and lets the quiet chill of a too early morning greet her. “Need a hand?” she asks as she meets Ontari’s eyes, the other woman’s shoulder still slung, her arm weaker, less toned. 

And perhaps Clarke doesn’t need Ontari’s answer, if only because she knows her well enough after the years spent together and so she comes to a quiet stand, her gaze turning to Entani’s still sleeping figure before she pads her way over to Ontari, the other woman’s hand coming to clumsily tie her shoelaces. 

“Stop,” and Clarke’s hands close around Ontari’s fingers for a moment, “let me.” 

And so it’s a small smile they share as Clarke kneels before Ontari, her fingers quick and sure as she ties the laces. 

“I still don’t really like you going out with the hunting parties, Ontari,” and Clarke looks up, her eyes stern in the flickering of the candle light. 

“All must provide,” Ontari shrugs in response, a wince falling onto her lips briefly. “If I can not fight well then I must hunt or track or fish,” and a dark shadow falls across her face, her eyes peering at the weakened arm held close to her chest. 

“Keep doing those exercises,” and Clarke eyes the frown that graces Ontari’s lips at her words. “It will help,” and Clarke squeezes her knee.

It’s only another short moment before Ontari’s laces are finished and then she stands, Clarke already slinging a bow and quiver of arrows over Ontari’s uninjured shoulder. 

“Be safe,” Clarke says quietly to Ontari as the woman gives a small wave before she ducks out the room, the door sliding shut with a quiet thud as Ontari’s footsteps fade into the quiet hum that seems constant within the Mountain's depths.

 

* * *

 

Her feet take her through the twisting turns of the Mountain, her eyes peering up at the ceiling and the lights that glow quietly, her fingers trace the rough of the walls and the small cracks that find themselves lost upon the concrete that spreads around her.

Burning candles hang on the walls, their scents a rich softness that helps to ease the smothering of the Mountain and so Clarke pauses for a moment, long enough for her tired mind to settle, for her eyes to ease the burn and her thoughts to drift to more pleasant times. And it’s only a short pause, only a quiet time that she spends leaning against the cool of the concrete wall, only enough time for her heart to ease. 

She pushes off the wall then, her mind just a bit clearer as she follows the path forwards until she comes to an intersection, her eyes peering left and right briefly before she turns down the right hallway, her eyes lazy in their movements as she traces the wood branches that have been attached to the ceiling, that hang above her head and the furs that are draped over segments of the flooring, all in the name of making the Mountain more natural, more like the ground.

It doesn’t take her long until she passes another few warriors, these from Shallow Valley, their clothes a soft green, speckled with yellows that breathe easily around them. And it’s a small nod of their heads and a soft murmured greeting they send her as she passes, their eyes careful as they gaze upon the scars that cling to her cheeks, two diagonal lines that slash from her temples to the corner of her mouth, and the large _v_ cut into her forehead, its point coming to rest between her eyebrows. 

And their eyes linger for a moment, for long enough that they take in her scars, that they take in the shade of her furs and the cut of the leathers. And she knows they recognise the marks that show her as Azgeda — Ice nation. She knows that the position of her scars mark her as coming from Ronto, one of the most southern villages that lies within Azgeda lands. But she knows they mark her as more, as more than just another scarred Azgeda warrior. She knows that despite the similarities to Ontari’s scars, to the slashes upon her friend’s cheeks, to the cuts in her chin and the diamond on her forehead, that her scars are different. She knows that despite the difference between her scars and Entani’s, the other healer’s scars slashed from her temples in an arc ending on her cheeks, small thorns cut into it that mark her as a healer, that hers are different. If only because _they are hers_. If only because she is Clarke Kom Azgeda, Wanheda, The Commander of Death. The Mountain Slayer.  The one who destroyed a civilisation with a single motion, the one who defeated an eternal enemy. 

And maybe she’s proud of it. Maybe she’s disgusted by it. 

But perhaps she doesn’t really know what to think.

But shouldn’t it be more than a hollow ache? More than a quiet laugh in the corners of her mind? More than the always lingering shadows that drift in the corners of her vision? That recede and fade and bend just a bit too far as her eyes chase their fleeting movements? Shouldn’t it be more than the sleepless nights and the searing burn of a too long heat, and a too short shower?

But maybe not. 

And so she smiles grimly at the Shallow Valley warriors, a quick nod sent their way as she passes,  her eyes locking onto the light that sits at the other end of the long hallway.

It doesn’t take her long until she steps outside the Mountain, the main doors open wide, tents flanking a path to the entrance on either side, torches burning brightly along the path’s edges as it fades into the trees that spread out before her. 

She finds who she searches for quickly, their eyes meeting for only a moment as Echo dismounts her horse, the tired beast’s breath billowing out from its nostrils in flames of cold. 

“Long journey?” Clarke asks as she approaches the assassin, Echo's eyes sharp in the rising of the sun, her features eagle like and cunning, her face scarless as dictated by her role as spy and assassin. 

“Yes,” Echo shrugs, a hand coming to tuck an errant braid behind her ear, the furs that line her shoulders rustling in the quiet breeze for a moment as she pulls her leather jacket tighter around her body. “I lost the trail again,” she finishes with a quiet sigh, her eyes peering up into the clouds overhead. 

“That’s the fourth time,” and Clarke eyes the quiver of arrows on Echo’s back. 

“Yes,” and Echo grits her teeth for a moment. “I do not know how they mask their tracks so effectively,” and she pauses, her eyes moving to a number of Trikru hunters that break through the tree line, a deer carried between them. “They stay close to the Azgeda and Trikru border, they disappear across one or the other and then their trail vanishes,” and her voice trails off quietly.

“You think someone is helping them?” and Clarke eyes the few warriors that move about the clearing, who move between the many tents that have been erected at the base of the Mountain that rises up into the clouds. 

“Perhaps,” and Echo shrugs once. “It would explain how their tracks vanish.”

“Who do you think it is?” Clarke asks, but she thinks she already knows. 

“The same person you do,” and Echo shrugs again. “I do not know though. Prince Roan would know of such a thing and I have not heard from him since last we spoke a moon ago. He would have sent word if he thought our Kwin was acting dangerously.”

“What about another clan? Someone not happy about the Mountain? About Azgeda having such a large force outside their borders?” 

“There are many clans not happy with the Mountain’s use,” Echo replies. “Lake Clan, Rock Line, Plains Riders,” she finishes cooly.

“They were never hit as hard by the Mountain,” Clarke counters, her mind turning quickly. “Not like Trikru, not like us and the other forest clans.” 

“Those who escaped will find it harder to cause destruction in the coming days,” Echo sighs, her hands coming to rest on her hips as she peers down at the ground, her foot scuffing a lonely stick. “Not with Azgeda moving across the border to replace those here.”

“What villages are they from?” Clarke asks, her lip worried between her teeth,

“From the northern parts of Azgeda.”

And at that Clarke’s eyes narrow, her mouth grimacing. 

“That won’t play well with the other clans,” and she sees Echo nod her head. 

“It is a message from our Kwin, I am sure,” and Echo scowls for a moment. “She sends our most fierce warriors to the Mountain.”

“They won’t cause trouble,” Clarke says, but as the words leave her lips she can’t help but to feel a small clenching in her stomach. 

“Do not trust them,” Echo says more quietly, her eyes finding a small number of Azgeda returning to the Mountain, their hands rising in greeting as they notice Clarke and Echo, “I am sure Nia has her own people within those arriving.”

“Yeah,” and Clarke lets a shadow fall across her face as she thinks over the next few days and the turmoil she is sure she will soon find herself in the midst of. “At least the weather is getting colder,” she finishes with a smile, her thoughts turning to the much welcomed winter that will soon set in.

 

* * *

 

“I’m going to be straight up, Clarke, it’s going to take a while,” Raven says, her eyes falling to the generators before them. “First one’s working fine, but the others got hit the worst,” she finishes, a shrug sent to Clarke before her eyes fall to the report in her hand. 

“How long?” Clarke asks, her eyes following a number of Skaikru engineers as they continue to pull apart the broken remains of a generator, the twisted metal a charred, melted mess of wires and steel.

“The first one took almost a month,” Raven says, her finger tapping her lips briefly. “We probably won’t even need all of them anymore, not with how things are playing out,” and she turns to eye a number of Trikru as they move pass them. “We don’t need power for the air filters, we don’t need power for the doors, and heating isn’t so much of an issue with all the open fires — regardless of how unsafe that is,” she finishes.

“Can we use anything from Arkadia?” 

“We can,” and Raven pauses once more, her mind wandering for a moment as she considers a problem. “We could, but I wouldn’t recommend it. We shouldn’t cannibalise Arkadia just to get the Mountain working again, it’d be the same as just moving Arkadia here,” Raven shrugs.

“Yeah,” and Clarke agrees, her teeth worrying her lip for a moment. “How are the missiles going?”

“Good,” and Raven sighs just once. “Well, we know what to do. But it’s complicated, as I’m sure you can understand. We can probably use them for the repairs too, but I’d rather not rush anything.”

“Yeah,” and again Clarke agrees with Raven. “Thanks, Raven,” she finishes before turning to exit, her mind already beginning to drift to the next task she is sure awaits her. 

It only takes Clarke a moment before her feet take her outside, her eyes squinting briefly as the sun’s rays shine brightly upon her. She pauses then, for long enough that a lungful of air can live deeply in her chest, and for the sounds of the cascading water to settle within her ears and then she moves forward, her gaze meeting a small number of Trikru who have made camp at the dam's entrance, small tents and cooking fires spread out in the small open space. 

She offers a small nod as she passes, her mind ever surprised at how quickly the clans have appropriated what was once the Mountain’s territory in the last month and a half since it fell. She thinks it appropriate though, she thinks it right that the Mountain, in its death, is now forced to provide for the clans it had taken from, that it had stolen from and had killed. Many of the nearby clans have begun sending their more seriously wounded to the Mountain and to Arkadia, the medical skills and equipment that both places have a boon for the clans. But despite the benefits, the Mountain still weighs heavily upon Clarke, her mind still often drifts to darker times, to times when she finds herself angry, hurt and frustrated. Even some of the other clans, ones further from the Mountain’s reach, have begun to voice their concerns, their anger at the Mountain so openly used, so openly flaunted in death. But for now Clarke has a mission, she has a purpose. Keep Azgeda in line, keep them from antagonising Trikru and the other clans present, and to aid in Skaikru’s integration with the clans. 

But she thinks those tasks not so easy. 

And so Clarke scoffs, her foot kicking at a loose pebble, her eyes following it as it skips across the ground. Torvun strides up to her then, his body casting a long shadow in front of him as he comes to an easy, quiet step besides her, his eyes ever careful as he watches the few that move past them.

“Torvun,” and Clarke looks to her side to see the man tilt his head in answer, the sun shining against the bald of his head, his beard a fierce, flowing mane that covers his broad chest, the two horizontal scars on his forehead glinting quietly as they bring two slivered shadows across his face. 

“Clarke,” he answers gruffly, his eyes meeting hers for a moment.

“Echo says the Azgeda replacements are from the Northern parts of Azgeda,” and she raises an eyebrow slightly, her gaze moving to those around them briefly. 

“Yes,” and he shrugs a shoulder once. “They are the most fierce of Azgeda,” and he pauses, his mind working through Clarke’s hidden question. “You think Kwin Nia has sent them?” 

“It crossed my mind.”

“You do not trust them to remain peaceful?” and Torvun scratches his chin briefly in thought.

“I don’t really know,” and Clarke sighs again. 

“They will fall in line,” Torvun shrugs though, “you are wanheda, all warriors will heed your words.” 

Clarke falls silent then, the title bestowed upon her something that she feels wriggle in the corners of her mind, that she thinks an ever constant taunt in her waking moments and a monster that crashes through her resting conscience, if only because she thinks herself disliking the title of _Commander of Death._ But perhaps she thinks it fitting. 

Clarke shakes her thoughts free though, a scowl forming across her lips as she sighs. “To be honest, I thought Kwin Nia would have sent word, would have done something by now,” and Clarke feels the tension in her shoulders as she pulls her gaze to the sky, her eyes following an errant cloud as it drifts overhead. 

“Perhaps Prince Roan’s return has given Kwin Nia pause,” Torvun says lowly.

And so Clarke turns her attention back to Torvun, his gaze ever constant as he looks to those that move around them. 

“Maybe,” Clarke says after a moment. “I guess we’ll find out soon.”

 

* * *

 

Moving through the forest is a quiet affair, her breaths coming evenly, her feet brushing softly against the leaves underfoot. Her ears pick up the telltale sound ahead and so Clarke pauses, her fingers brushing against her knife for only a moment as her eyes meet Torvun’s. They both hear the sound again, a quiet snapping of a twig and the rustling of leaves and so they creep forward, their eyes straining through the trees that group around them until they see movement.

Torvun draws his bow first, his eyes already sighted down the arrow as he takes a steadying breath. He holds it for a moment and Clarke readies her own bow, eyes focusing forward, her hair swaying gently in the breeze that flows around them. 

And then they both release. Clarke’s arrow whistles through the air, it snaps forward and it punches into the deer’s chest. Torvun’s arrow finds its mark, the arrow head breaking through the deer’s neck with a spray of blood before it wobbles, lets out a strained groan and then collapses with a heavy thud.

Clarke rises, a smile forming across her lips as she eyes the other Azgeda that rise with her, their own bows still drawn, their own eyes flitting through the trees around them.

Tying the deer is a quick action, Torvun passing her a line of rope as he slips a branch through the deer’s legs before hoisting his end onto his shoulders, another Azgeda warrior stepping in to take the other end, Clarke’s own height far too short for keeping the deer level. 

The walk through the trees passes easily, the tunnels that once connected the dam to the Mountain still open, but Clarke finds herself and many other warriors avoiding them, the reaper’s old sanctuary still leaving many warriors uncomfortable. Moving through the trees this close to the Mountain seems almost strange too, she finds the lack of growling reapers to be a relief, but perhaps she still feels on edge, still hasn’t fully let the defeat of the Mountain settle, if only because her ears strain for the slightest sound, her eyes ever constant as she moves through the trees, and she is sure the other warriors with her must feel the same, their own eyes moving constantly. 

It only takes them until the sun sits just a small bit lower in the sky, but they break through the trees, the Mountain coming to loom up in front of them, and the bustle of a quickly becoming permanent camp meeting their ears. The Azgeda warriors with them break off, some taking the animals they had hunted to be prepared, others moving to the training ground, some even heading to the Mountain’s entrance, torches burning quietly by the sides of the ever open front entrance. 

Clarke follows Torvun and the other warrior as they move through the tents that have spread out, the sounds of game being butchered ringing out through the air as they near their destination. She finds Ontari then, the other warrior resting easily on a log, her knife in hand as she runs a whetstone over it, the sun glinting off its edge. 

“You hunted, too?” Ontari asks, her eyes falling onto the deer that drops by Torvun’s feet as the other warrior walks off, a quick wave sent over his shoulder.

“We came across it and thought it wouldn’t hurt to have extra,” Clarke answers, her eyes falling to Ontari’s shoulder, the other woman’s arm held just a slight bit closer to her chest. “How’s your arm?” 

“Good,” Ontari says, but from the stiffness Clarke sees and the quick glance sideways of Ontari’s eyes, Clarke thinks it must be paining her. 

“Let me look at that,” she says, a sigh falling from her lips as Torvun begins untying the deer. 

“It is fine,” and Ontari grumbles quietly under her breath as Clarke kneels before her, fingers settling over her hand as it continues to sharpen her knife.

“If it was fine then you wouldn’t be holding it like you are. Don’t be stupid, Ontari,” Clarke says, her eyes peering steadily into the other woman’s brown gaze.

Ontari accepts her words with a quiet grumble, her eyes falling somewhere to the side as Clarke begins to peel back the furs around her shoulder. 

“It’s still a bit swollen,” Clarke begins, her eyes finding the bullet wound, the jagged red of the flesh just a small bit calmer in appearance than days prior. “You pushed yourself too much this morning, didn’t you?” and Clarke turns her gaze up to Ontari, the other woman meeting her eyes briefly before looking away again. 

“Yes,” she hisses out as Clarke begins to prod carefully at the muscles in her neck and shoulder. 

“It’s still tight, Ontari,” and Clarke sighs, her eyes rolling. “You need to rest it. And do the stretches. Every morning.” 

“It takes time,” Ontari retorts. 

“Do it,” and Clarke pins her with a stern look, a frown coming to sit across her face as she holds Ontari’s gaze for a long moment, the sun shining brightly against her back and into Ontari’s eyes. 

It’s a short silence, a tense second, but Ontari nods her head, her eyes softening with a gentle smile. 

“Ok,” Ontari says. 

Clarke smiles too, “It’ll be worth it, Ontari. Trust me,” and she squeezes Ontari’s knee briefly, before pulling the furs back around Ontari’s shoulders and coming to a stand, her hand held out for the other woman to take. 

And so Ontari takes her hand, her knife quickly sheathed against her thigh as they begin moving back towards the Mountain, Torvun’s shadow quickly joining there’s as they pass tents, large and bustling, and more permanent structures of wood, large benches and tables and camp fires that have spread out at the Mountain’s base. 

 

* * *

 

Sleep doesn’t seem to bring a comfort to Clarke’s tired mind. Perhaps it’s the ever constant warmth that lives inside the Mountain now, the many torches that burn down the hallways that keeps the cold of the concrete away. Maybe it’s the mere presence of the flames, of the ever burning, ever melting wax, that brings forth memories, actions, senses and smells and tastes to the forefront of her mind. 

Or maybe it’s the arm that holds her waist comfortably, maybe it’s the breath against the back of her neck, the warmth of Ontari who sleeps besides her, and the annoyance of Entani who moves just a bit too much in her sleep, whose elbow always digs into her ribs, whose hair tickles her nose. 

But maybe it’s just her life. And so Clarke sits carefully, the dark of the room sheltering her gaze for a long moment as she lets her rising chest settle and her beating heart ease. Her eyes fall to Ontari’s face then, the sleeping woman peaceful in slumber, her naked torso gleaming quietly in the faint dark of the room, all she wears a simple chest binding and sleep shorts in the warmth of their shared room. Entani wears much the same, but her leg sticks out from the furs and an arm hangs over the bed’s edge as she breaths in and out fully in her sleep. The images bring a smile to Clarke’s lips though, if only because she thinks herself grateful that they still live, if only because she, herself, still breathes. Or perhaps it is merely because she doesn’t sleep, doesn’t let the dreams take hold for another night. 

And so she rises, she slips from the furs of the bed and she pads her way over to the lonely table in the room’s corner, supplies and furs and clothes hanging over the edge, some piled on the table top, a domestic, simple thing that she thinks brings a small sliver of amusement to her nights. 

It doesn’t take her long until she slips out of the door, Torvun’s resting figure waking to the sounds of the door clicking shut behind her and so he rises, his eyes scanning up and down the hallway before settling on Clarke’s face with a nod and a small moment’s worry tinting his eyes.

She knows the route well by now, she knows the paths she takes, the quiet of the hallways and the flickering of the torches. It only takes her a few minutes before she turns down another hallway, her footsteps muffled, her eyes adjusting to the quiet ambience of the torches that burn lower in the late of the hour. She comes to another intersection, the new path leading her further through the Mountain until she comes to a door. 

She slips through it to find the chill of the stairwell clinging to her skin and so she lets a breath fill her lungs and wake her mind. And then she begins the steady rise. Her feet take her further and further up the winding stairs, the slight echo of her feet against the metal ringing out as she continues to move higher and higher. 

She comes to an end after long moments, her legs just a moment less steady beneath her, and her chest rising rapidly, the exertion of the climb still a battle for her, despite the times she has traversed it. Torvun steps besides her easily though, their eyes meeting quickly, and a smirk upon his face as Clarke’s eyes roll. And then she pushes forward, her palm pressing against the cool of the metal door and then she steps out into the open, the small clearing that meets her gaze a simple, quiet thing that rest on the side of the Mountain, that looks out over the treetops and that reaches up into the skies. 

The wind this high up seems to whistle through the air with just a small bite, with enough to tell her that she is high enough to feel isolated, high enough to feel content, free of others, and so she walks forward, her feet coming to brush against the soft grass of the clearing, her eyes flickering over the trees that lingers at the clearing's edges. Torvun rests by the door, his body leaning against the cool of the metal as his eyes move over the clearing, his gaze ever careful of the night. But Clarke knows the routine by know and so she steps further into the clearing, her eyes gazing down into the forest that sprawls out far below and she smiles. She smiles when she sees the faint fire in the distance, the burns quietly in the dark of the night, that signals the approaching of warriors from the west, from Polis. And she knows it will be soon. 

Her feet take her into the centre of the clearing then, her eyes turning up into the cloudless sky, the stars dotting the dark depths as they shine and flicker before her gaze, and so she kneels easily, she lets herself sprawl into the grass and her mind settle as she feels the quiet prickly of grass against her neck. It’s a deep inhale then, something that calms her mind and soothes her thoughts. 

And she waits.

She waits for a short moment. She watches the sky, she sees the lonely bird that soars overhead, that drifts on the wind. And she waits.

She waits for a moment longer. She plays with the grass between her finger tips and she lets the cool of the wind rustle her furs and sweep her hair easily. And she waits.

And she hears it.

She hears the careful footfalls that approach, she hears the steady rustle of leathers, the creak of boots and the slight puffs of deep breaths that battle up the side of the Mountain. And she knows who it is. 

And so she sits up, her eyes peering to the edge of the clearing, the rustling of branches soon becoming apparent as a figure bleeds into her vision. 

And she smiles.

She eyes the swaying of the long coat, the braids that weave intricately through the woman’s hair, and the smile that spreads quietly, softly, barely there, across the woman’s lips. 

And she smiles once more as she hears the woman call out her name gently.

And so Clarke replies.

“Lexa.”


	3. Chapter 3

A chill runs through the air only briefly before Clarke’s gaze settles fully on Lexa’s figure as it emerges from the trees, the flowing length of Lexa’s coat swinging lazily behind her as she eyes the clearing just once before coming to a stop at the edge. Clarke thinks she senses Gustus lurking close by, hidden in the trees, Lexa’s ever loyal guard a shadow to her movements. But Clarke finds her feet then, a small smile spreading across her lips as she calls out the other woman’s name lightly, and her eyes find the dark of the night curving across Lexa’s cheek as the moon sits in the sky for a long moment. 

And it’s only a small pause, only a quiet meeting of eyes before Lexa steps forward, before her feet take her into the clearing, before she comes to a stop in front of Clarke, fingers twitching by her side as her gaze wanders over the blonde’s face for a moment. 

“Long journey?” Clarke asks after a pause, the furs on her shoulder rustling gently. 

“Yes,” Lexa answers, her eyes dancing in the dark of the night. “I am sorry I am late,” and she looks away for just a brief moment. “I was kept at Polis longer than I intended,” she finishes, perhaps a quiet bashfulness finding its way across her face as she eyes Clarke’s inquisitive gaze.

“The ambassadors giving you trouble?” and Clarke thinks she feels her lips twitch up at the corners at the way Lexa’s eyes roll ever so slightly, before her brow furrows and a breath escapes her lips, full of exasperation and annoyance.

“Yes,” Lexa answers once more. “They continue to ques—”

But Clarke leans forward, her eyes darting to Lexa’s own for only a moment before her lips place a gentle kiss on the other woman’s cheek. Clarke lets her lips linger for a heated breath before pulling away, and she finds herself smiling at the widening of Lexa’s gaze and the way her lips part just barely, her fingers tugging at Lexa’s wrist as she pulls them both down onto the grass. 

And so they sit, they settle quietly as they share a small silence, Clarke’s fingers wending their way between Lexa’s own as their shoulders brush for a while, the quiet a comfort and the chill barely a thought in their minds. 

“Let’s just talk about something else for a while,” Clarke says after a moment, her words a whisper in the shadows. 

But she turns her head at the lack of response, her eyebrow raising as she finds Lexa’s gaze to be a lazy, longing thing that lingers across her face for happy moments before meeting her eyes. But Clarke sees the green eyes narrow as they settle on the shadows under her own eyes, she sees Lexa ignore the strand of brown hair that brushes against her nose in the slight breeze of the night and she feels the tightening of Lexa’s fingers against her own. 

“You have not been sleeping well,” and it comes out simple, it comes out firm, gentle enough for Clarke to avoid, tender enough for Clarke to know she is cared for. Strong enough to know she shouldn’t flee.

“I manage,” Clarke shrugs, her eyes turning from Lexa’s gaze. 

Lexa’s eyes stare at the side of Clarke’s face, they shift slowly and carefully as thoughts race through her mind, and Clarke thinks she can sense the way the green shifts, the way it bleeds into a quiet hazel, into speckles of lighter browns if she eyes them long enough in the moonlight. But Clarke thinks Lexa’s mind finds a solution, finds an answer to the questions she must be thinking. 

“The Mountain has changed,” and Clarke knows Lexa hasn’t voiced her thoughts. “You have led well in my absence,” Lexa finishes. 

“Yeah,” and perhaps Clarke isn’t quite so sure whether she feels relief at the avoided topic. “The clans here have worked together well enough,” and she smiles briefly, “at least they aren’t killing each other,” and she thinks of the tents and small huts that have been erected at the base of the Mountain, at the dam and the path that has now become more permanent, a trade route that winds through the forests and the trees, that links the closer clans to the Mountain now. “Arkadia is making progress too,” Clarke finishes. 

“I will send more supplies to aid in opening the path,” Lexa says in answer. 

“Thank you.”

They fall into another silence then, their words happy to live in their eyes, their conversations happy to flow through a gentle squeezing of fingers, of a quiet brushing of a shoulder and a shared gaze. And so Clarke looks up into the sky, her eyes tracing a cloud as it drifts, as it sails and fades into careful wisps before her vision. She follows the curve of the moon, the craters, greyed-blue blotches that smudge the white of the surface, of the light that reflects from a distant sun. 

“We walked there, once,” and Clarke smiles sadly at the thoughts that wind through her mind. “Long ago,” and she knows Lexa follows her gaze to the moon. “Before everything changed,” and it comes out just a hint softer. “Do you ever wonder what life would be like?” and she turns to Lexa, “what it would have been like if things were different? If we had met in a different life?” 

“No,” and Lexa’s voice comes quiet, gentle, firm in her convictions. “I do not, Clarke,” and Lexa smiles at Clarke’s sigh. “I do not wish for a different life,” and she turns thoughtful for only a moment. “I serve my people. I serve the coalition, and one day the Spirit of the Commander will find another to serve in my stead when my fight is over,” she says. 

“But—”

“—But,” and Lexa’s eyebrow raises, a small mirth finding her eyes. “But for now, there is nothing more that I wish for,” and her eyes remain steady as she holds Clarke’s gaze for a long moment. 

And so Clarke lets the silence settle once more, her heart strumming steadily within her chest, her furs happy to rustle in the breeze, her hair free to flow across her cheeks in errant strands that escape her braids. It’s a firmer chill that seeps into her after a moment though, the wind picking up just a bit, just enough to bring a longing to her mind, and so she cranes her head up, her eyes peering up into the depths of the sky as she lets the wind curve against her throat, as she lets it seep into her flesh, and she breathes in deeply.

“You miss it,” Lexa says, her eyes following Clarke’s movements, “Azgeda, the ice and snow.”

“Yes,” Clarke answers, “it’s too hot here,” and she smiles at the rolling of Lexa’s eyes. “I doubt your winters would even compare to Azgeda summers,” she challenges, her eyes peering at Lexa. 

“Perhaps your winters leave your thoughts too numb, Clarke,” Lexa answers cooly. 

“Did you just call me stupid?” Clarke laughs then, her lips curling around the sound as Lexa’s face remains carefully blank. 

“I would do no such thing,” Lexa answers, her shoulder shrugging carefully. 

And so Clarke smiles once more, her eyes trace the braids through Lexa’s hair for a long time before she sighs once, her free hand coming to brush through the grass beneath her, thoughts turning to Azgeda, and she knows their time of talking of other things has come to an end. 

“Not all Azgeda are bad,” and Clarke turns her gaze out to the land that spreads out below them, her eyes moving to the north, the barely there peaks of far off mountains and the white of Azgeda snow fields merely a thought in her mind. 

“No,” Lexa says in answer. “Not all Azgeda are bad.”

And Clarke feels a small regret begin to well in her chest, a regret that seems ever constant in these meetings held so late at night. 

“The peace won’t last, will it?” Clarke asks, her eyes still turned to the north. 

“The ambassadors are angry, Clarke,” and Lexa pauses, her own eyes turning north too. “Some do not like an Azgeda warrior having so much power outside of Azgeda borders.”

“Can’t they see that we just want peace?” Clarke says, but perhaps she already knows the answer.

“You are Wanheda now, Clarke,” Lexa says softly, her words careful, and so Clarke braces herself for what she knows will come next. “You defeated the Mountain when no one else could,” and it’s a truth. But she thinks it will always hurt. “Clans are angry that I allow Azgeda so much freedom outside their borders.”

“Won’t they listen to you?”

“It is more complicated,” Lexa shrugs. “Without the Mountain to unify the clan’s hatred of each other, their aggression turns inward. Old wrongs are surfacing that were once smothered by the Mountain’s shadow.”

And so Clarke thinks over the words Lexa says, her mind turning to Echo, to how the assassin had tracked those who had sided with the Mountain, who had fled. 

“Echo lost their tracks again,” is all Clarke says after a moment, and she is sure Lexa knows who she speaks of, “near the Azgeda border.”

“You think Nia aids them,” Lexa says, her eyes still peering out over the trees that spread out below them.

“It makes sense, doesn’t it?” Clarke says. “Nia hates you, she tried to use me to gain the power of the Mountain, but now she turns to those who sided with it,” and Clarke pulls a blade of grass free, holds it up in front of her face for a moment before releasing it to the wind. 

“She will use them to continue to destabilise the Coalition,” Lexa answers. “I am sure she will use any tech they have, any knowledge they have, and she will attack one day. Perhaps not tomorrow, perhaps not next season, or even ten seasons from now. But one day,” she finishes. 

“But Roan must be doing something, right?” and Clarke thinks of the short few months she has lived at the Mountain without fear from Nia, without being recalled to Azgeda. “Nia would have done something if Roan wasn’t keeping her in check,” but as the words leave her lips, Clarke thinks a thought finds a light in her mind. 

“Perhaps,” Lexa shrugs in answer. “How long has it been since you heard from Roan?” 

And perhaps Clarke can’t quite recall the last time she had heard from him. 

“Too long.” 

 

* * *

 

A path now links the Mountain to TonDC and to Arkadia, trees cleared from both sides, the rough dirt and mud and undergrowth of the forest stamped and beaten and well travelled. Though wide enough for perhaps five horses to ride side by side, the path stills seems oppressive, still seems much too small for the number of warriors that now travel through it, if only because the trees grow larger and larger, their branches reaching up into the sky overhead, that block the sun, that cause the light to flitter through the leaves and speckle against the rough of the bark and branches that litter the ground. And so Clarke rolls her shoulders, stretches her legs out awkwardly in her saddle and she continues to eye the surrounding trees, the occasional animal skittering from hidden crook to concealed burrow. 

Clarke smiles quietly at the sounds of Entani’s voice as it carries over the wind, the other healer’s exasperation at Ontari’s reluctance to let her shoulder fully heal an ever constant battle. Though Clarke shares in Entani’s annoyance, she can’t help but let the smile spread more fully as she turns in her saddle to find Ontari peering off into the trees, her injured arm swinging lazily by her side in demonstration of lack of pain, all the while Entani gesturing angrily from where she rides besides her. 

“I tell her to do her exercises,” Clarke says as Torvun follows her gaze from where he rides besides her. “She doesn’t really do them, but to be honest I think she’s stubborn enough to almost force her shoulder into healing,” Clarke finishes. 

“She has made progress,” Torvun says gruffly, fingers scratching through his beard briefly. “Her arm is not so weak as it was merely two moons ago.”

“Still, getting it looked at by doctors in Arkadia will be good,” and Clarke looks up into the canopy overhead, her eyes trying to discern the movement of the sun since they had set out earlier in the morning. “How long until we reach Ton DC?” she asks. 

Torvun peers up too, his head bobbing briefly as he looks out past the branches.

“Not long,” he shrugs. “Soon,” he finishes as he turns back to her, a frown forming across her face at his less than exact answer. “The Commander may have reached Ton DC by now,” he says, his voice lowering to a gentle rumble as he peers past Clarke and to the warriors that also ride with them, a few Azgeda and a larger number of Trikru.

The rest of the journey passes easily, trees bleeding into each other as the convoy moves along the path, a cart pulled in the centre full of supplies to be moved from the Mountain to either Ton DC or Arkadia. Clarke soon hears the first telltale sounds of life as the gates of Ton DC emerge from the trees, those who live on the ground and amongst the trees ever careful of the noise they make, and so she dismounts quickly, her eyes tracing the damage that still exists within Ton DC, the missile that had struck leaving behind a deep scar.

A number of warriors come to greet them, their usual weekly trip already expected, and so Clarke moves through the horses until she comes besides Entani, the other healer holding the reins of her own horse, as well as Ontari’s as the injured warrior dismounts just slightly inelegantly, her arm still weaker than she would admit in public. 

“We won’t stay long,” Clarke says as she reaches out to steady Ontari who comes to a rough stand, “long enough to pass along the supplies and talk to our friend,” she finishes.

Clarke casts her gaze over the convoy once more before beginning the walk through Ton DC’s large entrance, a number of Trikru eyes following her movements carefully, their gazes guarded, cautious, though a little less suspicious than months prior. She feels Ontari and Torvun step in besides her, Entani taking up the rear, the four Azgeda parting the crowd that has gathered at the main gates. 

They only walk a few paces before Clarke finds Lincoln and Octavia walking their way, Octavia’s hand raising only briefly in acknowledgement. 

“You’re here for the prisoner?” Octavia asks, her eyes flicking between the Azgeda. 

“Yeah, O,” Clarke answers. 

“He won’t say anything,” Octavia says as she begins the walk to the dungeons, an underground warren of rooms and tunnels that Clarke is sure spread out over great distances underneath Ton DC and the surrounding forests. 

“Can’t help to try,” Clarke says in answer. “Again.”

And Octavia laughs bitterly at her words, Lincoln’s own quiet exhale enough for Clarke to know that even Trikru and those of Skaikru have yet to succeed.

“They attacked another village near the border,” Clarke says after a moment, her gaze careful as she eyes Octavia and Lincoln for response. “A Trikru one,” she adds.

“We know,” is all Octavia gives, her jaw clenching tightly. “No one died, but they asked for medicine and healers and supplies,” she finishes. 

They come to a stop before a large building, the stone weathered and covered in vines, a large metal door recessed into it rusted a red brown. Lincoln holds up a hand as he steps forward, his fist banging against the metal twice before he steps back. It’s only another short moment before Clarke hears a groaning and creaking of metal and then the metal door slides open, a large warrior’s frame coming to push it aside as he squints in the sunlight that flashes against his face.

“You wish to see the prisoner?” the man asks as he eyes the Azgeda for a moment before stepping aside to let the newcomers in. 

They descend a number of steps, the hollow thump of their feet echoing against the cool stone of the walls as they move deeper and deeper underground. Clarke finds leaves litter the ground too, clearly blown in from cracks in the ceiling that shines light in overhead and by the metal grating and cracked concrete decorating the walls. She hears a voice echo out quietly after a while though, and so she lets her ears focus on the sounds, on the deep cadence that she recognises to be Thelonious’.

They come to an intersection, the voice now echoing more loudly, and as Clarke approaches she finds a number of guards standing around the corner, hands on the hilts of blades as their ears listen to the sounds of Thelonious and his bored singing echo out.

“How long has this been going on for?” Clarke asks the guard that walked with them. 

“He has been singing for days, Wanheda,” the guard replies. 

“Yeah,” Octavia adds with a roll of her eyes. “We can’t shut him up.”

“Let me talk to him alone,” Clarke says after a moment. 

And so the guards step aside, Lincoln and Octavia coming to stand with them as Ontari and Entani move in closer to Torvun who continues to peer cautiously at those nearby. Clarke rounds the corner, her eyes quickly finding Thelonious who sits on the floor of a cell, his feet shackled and his face caked in a layer of dirt and sweat. As Clarke steps closer to him she feels the heat of a torch that burns brightly against the wall, the stone around it blackened and layered in dirtied soot that fills her nose with smoke and stings her eyes just enough to be annoying.

“Clarke,” and Thelonious peers at her from where he remains seated. “So good of you to join me,” he finishes, his arms spreading out from him in a gesture as he looks around the cell he is held in. Clarke continues to walk forward carefully before coming to a stop opposite Thelonious, the bars of his cell all that separate them. “You came alone?” he asks as he peers out behind her.

“No,” Clarke answers, “they’re waiting just outside,” she says with a jerk of her chin as she comes to sit on the ground. 

“You’re going to question me again?” Thelonious says after a short pause, his beard now rough and unkempt. 

“Nope,” and Clarke watches as Thelonious’ eyebrows raise slowly. “I’m not here to question you about that.”

“And what are you here for?” 

And so Clarke takes a moment to pause, to consider the man before her, to consider the actions, the choices he has taken. 

“Why’d you side with the Mountain?” 

Thelonious smiles wanly at her words, his eyes careful in their movements as he traces the scars that adorn her face and the braids that wind through her hair. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Thelonious counters after a moment. “They were the most like us, and when the Grounders attacked, they came to our aid, they sheltered us and let us live as close to a life as we have always done.”

“So all that outweighed what the Mountain did?” Clarke challenges. “Taking people, bleeding them, using them as blood bags? Turning people into monsters? You could look past that just so that you could live more comfortably?”

“They never killed our children. They never killed our people,” Thelonious says. “The Grounders attacked as soon as we arrived. So yes, I sided with the Mountain. Because it was the right thing to do.” 

Clarke scoffs at his words though, her gaze hardening slightly in the torchlight before she continues, “you were misguided, Thelonious.”

But he pauses again and leans forward, as far as the chain around his ankle will let him before holds Clarke’s gaze for a long moment. “And you would understand misguided endeavours, wouldn’t you?” 

“What?” and it comes out a snap, a sharp bite.

“On the Ark,” and he eyes her steadily. “You decided it was in everyone’s best interests to know about the fault, you decided for everyone.” 

“Shut up,” she hisses.

“You saw an opportunity to get what you wanted,” he says, “you and your father saw the risk but you saw the reward, and you took it,” and his eyes turn mournful for a moment as memories surface. “And one of you paid the price,” he sighs. “I guess the gambit didn’t play off, did it Clarke?”

“We were doing what was best for our people,” Clarke hisses at him, her fists clenching tightly by her side.

“I guess what’s best for our people is all perspective,” Thelonious counters once more. “I thought what was best for our people was to work with those most like us,” and he shrugs again. “And you? You thought what was best for our people was committing genocide. But it’s all perspective, isn’t it?”

Clarke knows his words anger her now, she knows herself foolish to have spoken to him, to have been led down this path and so she stands, her eyes glaring at Thelonious as she comes to tower over him. 

“Enjoy your cell,” Clarke says as she turns, her feet already taking her away from Thelonious as he continues to eye her retreating figure. 

But as she nears the corner, as she nears the fresher air, Thelonious calls out once more from where he sits on the dirty floor.

“Wells wasn’t the one who betrayed your father.”

 

* * *

 

She feels her heart beating wildly in her chest, her lungs filling with air as she pushes through the undergrowth, her mind turning swiftly with each thought that rages in her mind. She thinks she can even hear Torvun moving through the trees as he tries to keep up with her movements, his bulk hindering his advance as he ploughs through the thicker forest that Clarke moves through. 

She had stormed out of the dungeons only moments ago, her jaw clenched tightly and her fists squeezing by her sides as she brushed past Entani and Ontari, both women eyeing her carefully, her anger clear for any to see. Thelonious had touched a nerve, his words had stabbed cruelly into her mind and wrought out her anger. 

And so Clarke pushes through a bush, her feet taking her through the forests that surround Ton DC and she continues to walk, Thelonious and the last of his words echoing in her mind. She kicks at a twig, her foot colliding with it and sending it bouncing along the ground before it disappears. Her nails dig into her palms, her eyes clenching shut tightly as she comes to a heaving stop, her forehead pressed against the rough bark of a tree. 

And she stills. 

She knows her actions foolish, she knows she shouldn’t risk being alone in a forest still unfamiliar to her. And so she breathes in deeply, her mind racing with images that she wishes to keep hidden, her thoughts drifting to the words Thelonious had said, and she thinks them just a means of causing her pain, of causing her anger. She thinks them a lie, something meant to cause hurt. But perhaps she believes them, perhaps she even considers them. If only because Thelonious had meant them, and she had felt the conviction in his voice, the same conviction that carries his words when he talks of doing what is right for his people.     

But for now Clarke merely wishes to control her breathing and her anger, and so she turns, the bark of the tree digging into her back as she slides roughly onto the ground, her hair pulling against the cracks in the tree trunk as she kicks her legs out before her. A sigh leaves her lips then, her thoughts slowly stilling, her breaths coming just a bit less rapid and her heart beating more quietly in her chest as she looks out into the trees. She thinks she hears Torvun moving through the trees too, just a faint rustling in the direction she had come, and she knows he will find her soon. But for now she takes the moment she has to collect her thought, to sift through the things she now knows. 

And she knows she will have to discuss things with Wells, will have to question things, will have to confront things. Perhaps even her mother, if her fears of who, of what, of— 

She shakes her head to clear the quickly spiralling thoughts that ramble through her mind. She breathes in deeply, lets the cool air fill her lungs and she exhales. Her breath comes out rumbling, it comes out a vibration that tingles her spine and raises the hair on the back of her neck. 

And it comes out not her own. 

She feels her skin prickle, she feels her skin tingle and tense, and she feels it. She sees the shadow that drops over her quietly, she thinks she even feels the tension in the air. And she knows she is hunted. Her fingers close around the knife on her hip slowly, surely, quietly, and her eyes peer up into the tree above her. 

Her eyes lock onto two eyes that are focused on her face, the pupils slits, black, the yellow of the eyes glowing silently in the dark of the tree. The predator, a large cat, peers down at her silently, its frame stilling in its movements. 

And it happens in only a fraction of a second, but Clarke feels it last a lifetime. The animal, black and silent pounces, it hisses and it screams out from the tree where it sat perched. Clarke rolls forward with a shout, her knife slashing out behind her as she rolls and ducks a swipe of the beast’s large paw and she curses her luck and her stupidity at having wandered off. She even hears Torvun shouting her name, her own shout alerting him to danger. 

The beast rounds on her, its shoulder hunched and its tail swishing out behind it. They begin to circle each other then, its eyes focusing on the pointed tip of her knife as she moves it steadily through the air before her. And then it lunges. A paw swipes at her feet, its claws scraping against the furs of her boot before its other front paw swats her knife. Clarke grimaces as she feels the weight of the paw catch her in the forearm, the claws of the beast slashing across her flesh before she can pull her hand back. But her knife finds flesh too, she feels it tug at the beast’s skin and she hears the roar of pain before she backs up quickly, her feet taking her away from the animal that continues to lunge forward with each step back she takes. 

It pounces with a roar, it soars through the air and Clarke dives, she lands on the ground, the sticks and rocks that litter the ground giving way under her feet and she cries out in pain as she feels the sharp claws dig into her thigh, and her face contorts as it digs in and as it yanks her off her feet and drags her backwards. 

She knows she hears Torvun’s frantic voice carrying over the wind now, the roars of the animal ringing out through the forest. But she ignores it, she ignores the pain in her thigh and she ignores the blood now caking her face, a split on her forehead stinging and burning. 

She feels herself dragged back roughly, the animal’s claws having found purchase in the flesh of her thigh and she feels herself rolled onto her back easily, and so she lashes out, her fist collides with the animals nose hard enough to give it pause before its jaw clamps down on her shoulder roughly, a scream falling from her lips. She feels the flesh in her shoulder give way, the furs and the leathers she wears helping to damped the force of the bite just barely. But she brings her knife up, she smashes it forward and she drives it into the animals shoulder as hard as she can. 

And then she is thrown through the air, the animal shaking her with a roar, its jaw lifting her by the shoulder before releasing her in an arc through the cold chilling bite of air. She lands with a harsh thud, her breaths coming out ragged and full of pain, her hand losing the knife she had held.

She scrambles back, her eyes searching for the glint of her knife as she crawls low, the animal wincing only slightly at the wound in its shoulder. And then it focuses on her. Its eyes snap back to hers and it snarls a vicious thing, its teeth bared, the fangs deadly and sharp and eager to taste the blood that pumps through her veins and the already torn flesh of her body. 

It pounces again, it’s paw swiping into her shoulder and sending her reeling, but she rolls, she manages to duck another swipe of a paw just in time and she feels the ground under her for only a moment as she continues to roll before she finds her feet once more, her eyes snapping onto the glint of her knife that lies just out of reach. 

It only lasts a moment, but Clarke looks back at the beast as it eyes her once more. And then it lunges. And Clarke lunges too. She lunges for her knife and she lunges for her life. Her fingers snare the handle of it and the last thing she sees before consciousness is shattered from her mind is the animal’s teeth pressing against her face.


	4. Chapter 4

Her fingers tap quietly against the hard edge of her throne, the furs underneath her a soft blanket that soothes her mind for long moments as she eyes the man before her. She lets the silence linger for a while, for long enough that the shadows cast by the flame in the centre of the throne room flicker and glow. Even the torches that burn against the columns along the walls seem to dance in the warmth of the large room she finds herself in. Her eyes trace a lone snowflake that falls through a crack in a blind though, she watches it drift and flutter before it melts, before it fades into a quiet hiss as it touches the heat of a burning flame. 

“You are sure?” she asks after a moment, her eyes snapping back to the man before her. She watches him look away briefly, his mind turning back the days as he considers his words. 

“Yes, Kwin Nia,” he answers. “I am sure of it,” he finishes evenly. 

And so she nods her head slowly, a smiling coming to play across her lips as her thoughts shift, as they settle, drift and solidify in her mind. 

“Thank you,” and her fingers still in their tapping. “You may leave,” and she inclines her head evenly, the man taking one last bow of his head before turning and walking towards the doors.

Nia watches as he retreats then, she watches the rustle of his furs and she watches as the doors swing open with a groan before closing as he passes through them. 

“Leave us,” she calls out then, and she eyes the guards who linger at the edges of the throne room, who stand guard at the far entrance and the hidden passageways recessed into the walls, hidden by large tapestries and furs that hang from the ceiling.

It doesn’t take long until the guards file out of the room quietly. But as the last of them fade she turns her attention to the woman who stands before her. 

She eyes the woman’s slender figure, the lean muscles that cord up her arms, the scarred fingers that twitch by her sides and the deep richness of her skin. Nia eyes the woman’s dark hair too, the way it curls, the way it dances lazily in the gentle breeze that seems ever present in the throne room. And she peers at the scar that runs down the woman’s cheek, that mars her lip and Nia follows the way the woman’s eyes focus somewhere over her shoulder, hazel gaze never quite meeting her own cold, blue gaze. 

And so Nia leans forward.

“How does it feel?” and Nia watches as the woman’s eyes close briefly, as her lip trembles and as her jaw clenches tightly. “How does it feel to know you were so easily replaced?”

 

* * *

 

It’s warm, it’s hot, and her skin burns, her mind wriggles for only a moment and then her eyes snap open. Clarke finds herself in a tent, candles burning thickly by the side of the bed she finds herself lying in, too close for comfort, too hot to keep her cool and too close to fight the chill that clings to her flesh. Her gaze swims oddly for a moment before she sits up fully, her vision blurring briefly before she eyes the war table that lies in the centre of the room and the large map that covers it. 

The furs fall from her torso as she sits, they bundle at her waist and she feels the pinch in her shoulder and the sting in her thigh and the tightness of her forehead. Clarke finds her shoulder wrapped tightly, a slight scent lingering on the bandages enough to tell her medicine has been applied, and she is sure the same bandage and paste has been applied to her thigh. She brings a hand through her hair, a strand falling into her eyes and she feels the braids that have been loosened, that now flow past her shoulders freely. She hears the rustle of feet then, and so she turns with a wince to find Nyko at a table, a pile of fresh bandages being laid out in front of him as he eyes her carefully.

“You are awake,” he grunts out as their eyes meet. “Do not move, I will send for Heda,” and then he raises, walks over to her quickly and places a cup into her hands before walking to the tent’s entrance.

Clarke brings the cup to her lips only to grimace at the foul smell before she swallows the bitter medicine roughly, a drop falling past her lips as she leans back tenderly, her aching body protesting the slight movements. The tent flap opens swiftly then, the sound causing her to spill the cup into the furs as she looks up at the intrusion. She finds Lexa standing at the entrance as the flap swings shut behind her, Torvun’s face peering in briefly before his face is hidden from view. 

“You are well,” Lexa says simply, her eyes moving across Clarke’s body only for a moment before she looks away, her throat clearing roughly as she focuses onto the table and the map that lies atop it. 

“What happened?” and Clarke finds that her voice comes out frayed, worn and weary. 

“You killed a beast,” Lexa answers, her gaze still trained onto the map, a finger brushing against the rough edge of the parchment. 

“I…” and Clarke’s voice trails off, her mind turning back the events she recalls. 

“Torvun found you unconscious and pinned under the beast,” Lexa interjects, “your knife was imbedded in its heart,” and Lexa’s jaw clenches tightly before she continues. “You should not have gone without Torvun,” and Lexa’s fingers grip the edge of the table firmly as she breathes through her nose for a long moment. “You should not chase death, Clarke,” and she turns to meet Clarke’s gaze steadily. 

Clarke holds her gaze, her eyes shifting between Lexa’s own for a moment as she thinks over the other woman’s words. Her mouth opens once before it closes, Lexa’s eyes shifting once more from her face and back to the table.

“You think I tried to get myself killed?” Clarke says, her eyes blinking in the dark of the tent. 

“Why else would you attack a beast and not call for help?” and Lexa’s voice softens, her shoulders relaxing just a bit. “You have not been sleeping well, Clarke. It is clear the Mountain has left a mark on y—”

“Lexa, that’s no—”

“The Mountain took a toll on you, Clarke,” Lexa finishes.

“Look, Lexa, that’s not what happened,” and Clarke swings her legs over the edge of the bed and she grimaces tightly as she stands, her thigh protesting the exertion. “I just needed to cool off,” and Clarke steps towards Lexa, the other woman’s eyes widening before she turns her gaze from Clarke once more. “I wasn’t trying to get myself killed, I just got ambushed, ok?” and Clarke comes to a stop mere paces from Lexa. “Ok? Lexa,” and Clarke’s eyes narrow as Lexa continues to avoid her gaze. “Lexa, just— will you look at me?” 

And so Lexa swallows painfully for a moment, her eyes shifting slightly as she looks at Clarke from the corner of her eyes.

“You are not dressed, Clarke,” is all Lexa says.

“Oh,” and Clarke glances down to realise all she wears are her small shorts and her chest binding,  her skin shining gently in the dark of the flickering candles. “I— uhh…”

Lexa turns though, paces across the tent and picks a heavy fur from the bed before turning back to Clarke and draping the furs over her shoulders. 

“Thank you,” Clarke says as she finds herself sitting on the edge of the bed, the furs wrapped around her shoulders as Lexa finally turns to her fully. “How long was I unconscious for?” 

“Most of the day,” Lexa answers from where she stands in the centre of her tent. “Torvun brought you back to Ton DC, Nyko saw to your wounds.”

“So now I’m here? In your tent,” Clarke says, her eyes skirting the edges of the tent for a moment before they come to rest on the bed she sits on. “In your bed,” and she smirks softly at the way Lexa’s jaw clenches. 

“Yes, Clarke,” and Lexa’s eyes flicker briefly in the candle light, or perhaps Clarke merely thinks they do. “I am happy you are well,” Lexa finishes after a moment’s silence.

“Me too,” and Clarke watches as Lexa relaxes some more, as she loosens the collar of her coat and as she takes a seat in a chair not far from where Clarke rests.

“Do you wish to discuss what the prisoner said?” and Lexa’s eyes turn thoughtful, and just a touch careful in the candle light. “We do not have to,” Lexa quickly amends. “It is not my pl—”

“No, it’s ok,” and Clarke sighs once, her shoulder aching for a moment. “I never really told you why I was sent to the ground, did I?” and Clarke sees Lexa nod once.

“You did not,” and Lexa shrugs briefly. “It was not my place to ask, Clarke.”

“On the Ark,” and Clarke jerks her chin upwards, “we had tech that let us breathe in space, that let us survive,” and she wets her lips, thoughts turning to her father, to Wells, and she feels the ever present weight of the watch that remains strapped to her wrist. “My father found a fault, he found that something was wrong,” and Clarke steadies her breaths, closes her eyes briefly in anticipation of the tears she is sure will build. “He wanted to tell everyone, he wanted to warn everyone about the problem,” and her eyes open, her vision remains steady, and perhaps it surprises her that her voice holds firm, that her mind doesn’t quite recoil from the memories as it once did. “But he was stopped and sentenced to death,” and Clarke sees Lexa nod once more, her eyes tender as she gazes upon Clarke. “I was locked up, I was going to be executed too, but then I was sent down to earth to see if we could survive,” and Clarke smiles sadly for a moment before waving her hand across her face, “and you know how that part of the story ends.” 

Lexa remains silent for a moment though, her gaze quiet as she traces the scars that sit against Clarke’s cheeks and across her forehead. 

“I always thought it was my friend who turned him in,” and Clarke looks away then, just for a moment. “I had come to terms with it, I’d even thought I could forgive him eventually. But Thelonious says it wasn’t who I thought it was,” and Clarke shakes her head ruefully. “I think I know who betrayed my father,” and she isn’t quite so sure what to feel in this moment. 

“And what do you think you will do now?” Lexa questions quietly.

“I should talk to her,” Clarke shrugs in answer, “I think after everything though, after living in Azgeda for two years, after surviving the Mountain,” and Clarke smiles at Lexa again. “I think I’m ready for something different, I think I’m ready not to feel so angry anymore,” and she pauses, lets her thoughts catch up to her mind once more. “But yeah, I should talk to my mother.”

Lexa remains quiet for long moments then, and Clarke finds herself happy to share in the silence, in the absence of words and so she lies back on the furs, her fingers happy to smooth over the tufts of browns and reds under her and she smiles quietly, the soft of the bed lulling her mind into a quiet that calms her for a short while.

“The beast you killed is being prepared,” Lexa starts after a while, her gaze meeting Clarke’s once more. “Its hide and skull will be given to you as a trophy,” and Lexa smirks for a moment and Clarke thinks an image must dance in Lexa’s mind. “It will be impressive,” Lexa finishes.

Clarke yawns tiredly though, her aching body already beginning to find sleep and so Lexa stands and looks to the tent’s entrance for a moment.

“I will let you dress, Clarke,” and Lexa looks back to her before continuing. “It would perhaps be best if it did not seem as though you were sleeping in my tent,” she finishes, her feet scuffing against a fur briefly.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Clarke answers as she rises. “I’ll only be a moment,” she finishes as she reaches for her clothes that lie piled at the foot of the bed, Lexa only meeting her gaze briefly before ducking out the entrance.

 

* * *

 

Clarke exits Lexa’s tent after a few minutes to find Torvun standing not far from the entrance, large fist wrapped around the handle of his sword as he glares at her.

“I’m ok, Torvun,” Clarke says, a hand coming to brush away a loose strand of hair from her face with a wince. 

“You are ok now, but if I had not come soon you would have died. The beast was smothering you,” he says, eyes moving over her body briefly. “You could have bled out,” and he stares pointedly at her forearm, then her shoulder and thigh, all three wrapped in bandages and covered by her furs and leathers.   

And so Clarke signs, a small limp to her step as she begins moving away from Lexa’s tent, Torvun ever close behind her.

“Ontari is angry,” he says after a moment, “Entani is also worried,” he finishes, his gaze following her carefully. “The Commander insisted that her healers attend you,” and Torvun’s voice lowers just a bit, his eyes peering out around them as they pass a few Trikru that walk close by. “I would caution discretion, Clarke,” he finishes lowly.

And Clarke thinks over his words for a moment as she peers up at the passing of the sun, now sitting lower in the sky. 

“You don’t think we should be seen together,” she says eventually.

“Yes,” he answers, his hand coming to steady her briefly as she wobbles over a rough patch of ground. “You must be careful with your actions until things are more clear.”

And Clarke knows what he speaks of, she knows he cautions her from revealing too much to those that would use it against her, against Lexa, and so she sighs once more, her shoulder aching and her thigh and forearm itching from the paste. 

“It wouldn’t have looked so bad,” Clarke says then as she peers back to Torvun.

“Perhaps,” and he shrugs. “You are Wanheda,” and he ignores her wincing at the title before continuing, “but even Wanheda would not see Heda so often.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke finds the few Azgeda already setting up their tents, her encounter with the panther having wasted most of the daylight, so for now she finds herself sending the occasional Azgeda warrior an apologetic smile as she hobbles between tents as she looks for Ontari or Entani in the midst of the Azgeda. 

It doesn’t take Clarke long to find their tent, the grey-white speckled furs swaying quietly in the breeze. Ducking through the entrance she comes face to face with Ontari, furs wrapped around her waist, arm unslung and her eyes glaring at Entani as the other healer tries to wrap her shoulder. 

“You are ok,” Ontari says quickly as she comes to stand, Entani sighing behind her as she puts away the bandages for the moment. 

“Yeah, I’m ok,” Clarke answers with a glance over her shoulder to find Torvun’s shadow looming outside at his usual position by the tent’s entrance.

“We were worried,” Entani says as she steps from behind Ontari, the healer’s eyes moving over Clarke’s body for a moment as she takes in the way Clarke leans more heavily on her uninjured leg. “You are hurt,” is all Entani adds.

“It’s not so bad, just a few scratches,” Clarke says. 

“You were angry,” Ontari adds after a moment, her hands coming to rest on her hips and her hair falling over an exposed shoulder. “I can kill the prisoner without Trikru knowing,” she finishes.  

Entani’s eyes roll at her words though before moving to the table, a plate of dried meats and breads already piled high for them to share. “Did you not consider, Ontari, that the prisoner is alive because he may still prove useful?” Entani says as she sits at the table. 

“What use is he if all he does is antagonise? He has yet to give us any useful information,” Ontari snaps back before turning to face Clarke fully. “We should be allowed to question him without Trikru,” and the glint in Ontari’s eyes shines just a bit brighter.

“Hold up,” and Clarke steps forward pushing Ontari onto the side of the bed as she grabs the bandages from where Entani had left them. “We aren’t doing any torture,” she continues as she extends Ontari’s arm carefully, ignoring the other woman’s growl of annoyance. “And Skaikru wouldn’t be happy about us questioning him either. He may be a prisoner but he’s still a member of Skaikru,” and Clarke pins Ontari with a careful look.

“We can request for him to be brought back to Azgeda,” and Ontari lifts her chin, a thought taking place in her mind. “He wronged Azgeda the most, he attacked and killed Azgeda inside the Mountain and he led those against us,” and she raises an eyebrow. “Is that not correct?” 

And so Clarke sighs once before nodding, already recognising where Ontari’s thoughts take her.

“Azgeda has a claim on his life,” Ontari continues. “Any crime against Azgeda is dealt with in Azgeda lands. If we can take him then we can question him the Azgeda way,” and Ontari smirks at the plan she voices.

“Ontari speaks truthfully, Clarke,” Entani says as she passes them the plate before continuing. “There is precedent for disgraced warriors, for criminals and those wanted by the Kwin to be hunted and returned to Azgeda for punishment,” and Entani looks to Ontari as the woman tugs off her boots before flinging them into the corner of the tent to meet their discarded clothes. 

“I’ll talk to the Commander,” Clarke says in answer as she finishes tying a knot on the bandages around Ontari’s shoulder, the weakened arm Clarke is sure still pains Ontari despite her protests. 

And so Ontari nods to herself, a smiling spreading across her lips.

 

* * *

 

It’s dark, the night a black cloud overhead, or perhaps it’s early, the sun only just beginning its lonely rise over the earth, but Clarke’s eyes open quietly, they blink tiredly in the cool of the soon to be day and she finds the tent still, quiet and calm. It only takes her a moment to register that she lies next to Ontari, the woman’s hand gripping her waist, head tucked into her shoulder. It only takes her a second to recognise Entani’s knee that digs into her thigh and elbow that rests against the back of her neck. 

Clarke lies for a short moment, enough for her skin to prickle in the cool of a Trikru winter that is soon to be, and then she rises carefully, her eyes scanning the tent, a quiet sliver of grey shining in from the outside. Her feet meet the furs on the floor of the tent, her thigh protesting the stretch in her muscles and her shoulder aching only a slight bit, the cut across her forehead and forearm already numbed and less swollen then the day prior. 

Dressing is a quick, practised motion, her under clothes quickly pulled on, her chest binding wrapped and a knife slipped between it and her body. Her pants are pulled on stiffly, the furs warming her legs before her boots are tied, the furs muffling her steps as she treads to the table top, her cloth shirt and the heavier furs and leathers of her jacket already being pulled on. It only takes her a moment before she begins the quick few paces to the tent’s exit, but as she nears, as her feet touch the end of the furs that carpet the floor, Torvun’s words echo through her mind quietly, words of caution, of being careful, and so she turns quickly, her eyes only briefly glancing at the bed to find Entani rolling into the warmth her body has left behind, and then she pulls out the jar of white Azgeda war paint, her fingers dipping into it before smearing it across her face quickly, all in the name of representing Azgeda in Trikru lands. 

Clarke steps out of the tent after short moments, the paint on her face settling her mind as she comes to a stop besides Torvun, his eyes already open, and his hand resting on a knife as he looks around carefully.

“I’m still not used to you being able to wake up so quickly,” Clarke whispers to him, a smile on her lips as Torvun merely shrugs as he stands, his sword quickly strapped to his body as he sheathes his knife.

“Official business?” he questions as he eyes the warpaint on Clarke’s face before falling into step behind her, the dark grey of the morning giving just enough light for the journey. 

“You could say that,” Clarke says in answer, her eyes snapping to movement not far from them to find an Azgeda warrior picking her way through the tents, a bucket of water carried in her arms. 

And so Clarke and Torvun pick their way through the few Azgeda tents before breaking from the small camp and heading towards Ton DC’s main entrance, a few guards eyeing them as they approach the gates already swinging open slowly as Clarke nods to the few that watch them.

It doesn’t take them long until they reach Lexa’s war tent, the ever large structure looming up in an open clearing at the other end of Ton DC, Lexa’s own warrior’s tents sprawling out around it for the night. Clarke finds Gustus ever present outside the entrance too, his eyes tracing the movements Clarke and Torvun make as they approach before peering past them carefully before once more settling upon Clarke’s face and the white warpaint smeared across her cheeks. 

“I would like to see the Commander,” Clarke says in greeting as she comes to a stop in front of Gustus, the large man’s eyes quickly counting the number of blades she has visible on her body. 

“Wait here,” he says before ducking inside. 

It doesn’t take Gustus long before he steps out once more, a nod of his head sent to Clarke before he steps aside, Torvun taking place next to him as the two men turn their backs on the tent’s entrance, their eyes ever roaming over those that linger near. 

Clarke’s eyes adjust to the tent quickly, the flickering light of a number of candles warming her body and causing her eyes to blink rapidly before she finds Lexa standing next to her throne.

“It is early, Clarke,” Lexa says as she steps forward, her eyes moving over Clarke’s face before settling on her furs and leathers. “You have warpaint,” is all she adds as an eyebrow raises and a hand trails over the edge of a nearby tabletop. 

“Sorry,” Clarke whispers as she steps forward too, her feet muffled on the furs she walks on. “I thought that if we were going to be seen meeting early in the morning, then it should look like offical business,” she finishes with a smile. 

“I see,” and Lexa returns the smile too, or perhaps it’s merely a twitching of her cheeks and a slight lifting of the corner of her lips. 

“You weren’t asleep, were you?” Clarke says as her eyes trail over Lexa’s figure, the woman’s coat already wrapped around her body, her knife strapped to her thigh and her bone studded gloves warming her fingers. 

“I wake early,” Lexa shrugs as she comes to a stop in front of Clarke. 

And so Clarke smiles gently, her hand reaching out slow enough for Lexa’s eyes to snap to it, to follow the motion before it joins with her own, squeezing it once before Clarke releases it.

“I do not mean to offend, Clarke,” and Lexa’s eyes move over Clarke’s face slowly before settling a level lower, “but is there a reason as to why you wished to speak with me?”

“I can’t just want to see you?” Clarke challenges lightly, an eyebrow lifting as she leans on the edge of a table, her arms coming to fold across her chest. 

“I do not believe that is why, Clarke,” Lexa answers cooly, her own smile coming to spread a bit more freely.

“You wound me, Lexa,” and Clarke holds a hand to her heart as she gasps quietly in jest. 

And so Clarke watches as Lexa moves around the table, her eyes trailing over the map atop it before settling back on Clarke. “This is a map of the surrounding area,” Lexa begins in the silence, “it marks where those who fled the Mountain have attacked,” and Lexa’s finger taps on three separate areas, all marked with a small carving of the Mountain. “They flee over the border into Azgeda lands,” she finishes, her eyes peering up at Clarke for a moment. 

“I have no part in it,” Clarke quickly adds, a frown forming across her face. 

“I did not think that,” Lexa says. 

“But you think Nia is playing games,” Clarke says, her mind turning back to their most recent meeting at the clearing on the Mountain’s side. 

“Yes,” and Lexa sighs once, a tiredness coming to rest atop Lexa’s shoulders. “All available evidence would suggest that Nia is aiding them.”

“That’s actually why I wanted to see you,” and Lexa looks up at her, “I wanted to ask if we could take Thelonious back to Azgeda, to get information out of him,” Clarke finishes.

“No,” and it comes out quickly, sternly, softly.

“No?”

“No,” and Lexa sighs once more. “I can not be seen giving favour to Azgeda in a matter that concerns more than just Azgeda,” she says. 

“But he ordered the attacks on Azgeda inside the Mounta—”

“He sided with the Mountain, yes,” Lexa interrupts. “He caused the deaths of Azgeda warriors inside the Mountain,” and Lexa pins Clarke with a careful gaze. “But the clans see him as one from the Mountain. And the Mountain wronged all clans,” Lexa continues. “So you will not be given the prisoner.”

“And if we take him?” Clarke questions carefully, less conviction in her voice and more query. 

“Then Azgeda would be seen as acting in defiance of the Commander’s orders.”

“I get it,” Clarke sighs. “That’s a no go,” and she smiles kindly at Lexa, the other woman’s finger tapping quietly against the wood of the table.

“I am sorry, Clarke,” and Lexa’s voice comes out quietly. 

“It’s ok,” Clarke says. “It was only a thought, I don’t think we’d get much out of him anyway.”

“He will be punished, Clarke,” Lexa says in turn. “Azgeda and all clans will see justice for the crimes of the Mountain, I swear it to you,” and Lexa’s voice hardens quietly. “But for now he has information, no matter how small, no matter how irrelevant it may seem, anything he says, anything he does, or how he reacts to news may give us enough to combat these bandits.”

“Yeah,” Clarke says lamely, her eyes finding the map as she traces over the areas that have been attacked. “They have guns,” she says. “Why aren’t they causing more trouble?” she asks.

“Kwin Nia wishes to test the Coalition, she wishes to probe for our reactions, how we respond. She wishes to see how far she can push before the Coalition breaks,” Lexa’s voice trails off for a moment in thought, her own gaze turning to the map. “You should come to Polis.”

“The capital?” and Clarke looks up at her. 

“Yes, it would be good for you to help assure the clans that Azgeda does not wish to break from the coalition, despite Nia’s actions, no matter how covert.”

“You think it would help?”

“It can not hurt,” Lexa answers. “It would be seen as Azgeda taking this threat seriously if Wanheda were to speak on her clan’s behalf, and it would give more bullish clans pause in their own reactions for Wanheda to confront them.”

“What about Nia though?” and Clarke’s thoughts worry over Nia, of how she might react.

“Nia has not made a move on you, or the Mountain other than the bandits, so I believe that Roan is steadying her hand and in that case she will not recall you from Polis or countermand your presence at the capital. Or perhaps Nia respects the power of Wanheda,” and Clarke feels a slight stinging across her face at the words, no matter how easily the title falls from Lexa’s lips, “and in that case, she will also not command you away. Your presence at the capital will be seen as Azgeda showing its strength, and Nia will not want to seem weak by sending you away,” Lexa finishes.

“But we haven’t heard from Roan in a while,” and Clarke worries her lip.

“In that case,” and Lexa’s eyes meet Clarke’s for a moment, “it would be best that you are not isolated at the Mountain,” and Lexa’s meaning isn’t lost on Clarke.

And so Clarke nods her head, Lexa’s words making sense to her. 

“Who would command the Mountain in my absence?” she asks after a moment though.

“I will have Indra command it,” and Clarke nods at Indra’s mention. 

The two women fall into an easy silence then, both of them happy to let their eyes wander over the map, the detailing of the trees and rivers and mountains that are drawn intricately over the parchment. Clarke watches as Lexa looks up quickly though, her head turning to a small table that lies at the corner of her tent near her bed. Lexa moves towards it, just a quick glance over her shoulders at Clarke. 

And Clarke watches as Lexa picks up dark black furs wrapped in a bundle, and she watches as Lexa turns to meet her eyes, the furs wrapped in her arms as she steps towards Clarke easily, her gaze moving over Clarke’s face briefly.

“What’s this?” Clarke asks as Lexa comes to a pause in front of her.

“The beast you killed,” Lexa answers cooly as she unwraps the furs, the black pelt unrolling in her arms and shimmering, the colour a deep black that borders on a rich purple as it flickers in the light. And as it unravels in her arms it reveals a skull, lower jaw missing, large canines shining in the candle light, dagger like and fierce as they protrude the length of Clarke’s fingers. 

Clarke looks at it for a long moment, her eyes taking in the stark white of the bones, bleached and hardened, she eyes the softness of the fur, the short hairs not as long as the grey-white furs she wears, but just as warm to the touch and just as soft and supple. 

“Thank you,” she whispers, unsure of what else to say as Lexa starts to move behind her. 

“It is a trophy, Clarke,” and she feels Lexa’s fingers brush the hair from the back of her neck gently. “You do not need to thank me,” Lexa continues as she drapes the pelt over Clarke’s shoulders, the weight resting comfortably across her as Lexa brings the clasp to rest over Clarke’s chest, the sturdy metal buckle settling easily. 

She feels the weight of the skull then, and she feels Lexa place it on the back of her head, the teeth coming to cradle the sides of her head.

“It has been attached to the pelt,” Lexa whispers quietly from behind her, fingers still easing the skull in place. “It will not fall, and it will rest here,” and Lexa’s breath comes closer to her ear then, and Clarke can’t help but to fall into the soft timber of Lexa’s words as they brush the shell of her ear. “You can slide it up to protect yourself in a fight, the bones are hardened, it will give you protection and allow you to still see,” and Lexa’s fingers ghost against the line of her neck tenderly. “It will make you look fierce, Clarke,” and Clarke thinks she can hear the smile in Lexa’s voice.

And so Clarke turns, she turns to face Lexa easily, the candle light flickering in the tent. Clarke reaches up then, her fingers grasping the skull from behind her head as she slides it up, as she settles it over her face, and as she looks through the enlarged eye sockets, the panther’s teeth coming to settle against her cheeks and down to her jaw. 

“How does it look?” she asks, her voice only slightly muffled by the bone. 

“Good,” Lexa whispers, her eyes dancing over Clarke’s face. 

And so Clarke leans forward, her hands coming to rest against Lexa’s hips as she bumps the skull against Lexa’s nose softly before repeating the woman’s words with a smile.

“Good.”


	5. Chapter 5

Clarke’s eyes snap open. Her chest rises rapidly and her breaths come frantic, heavy and painful within her chest. It takes her mind only a moment to register the place she finds herself, the bed she lies in and the warmth of the body besides her. And then she turns to the movement in the tent.

“You can not sleep?” Ontari asks quietly, her hands tying the knots of her boots as she eyes Clarke carefully from where she sits on a stool. 

“No,” Clarke answers, her mind souring quickly, her memory already fading.

“I am going hunting,” Ontari says as she stands, her furs already wrapping her body for the cool of the settling winter dark outside. 

“I’ll come,” Clarke says, already halfway out of the bed, her thigh protesting the sudden exertion before she comes to a stand, her shoulders rolling, her forearm and injured shoulder slightly stiff from the encounter with the panther. 

 

* * *

 

It only takes Clarke mere moments, but she dresses quickly, her furs wrapping her body and her bow slung over her back, knife strapped against her thigh. Ontari steps forward, fingers smoothing over the furs on Clarke’s shoulders as she centres the clasp of the panther’s pelt over her chest, Ontari’s brown eyes moving over the dark black of the pelt briefly before settling on the healing cut on Clarke’s forehead.

“It looks good,” Ontari says, eyes tracing the skull and teeth that peak up behind Clarke’s head.

“I think so,” Clarke smiles warmly as she follows Ontari out of the tent, Entani’s still sleeping form happy to bask in the warmth left by the two women.

Both women are greeted by the chill air of a grey sky, the first taste of winter beginning to set in. Torvun eyes them as they pass, a question in the raising of his eyes that Clarke meets with a shaking of her head. And so Clarke and Ontari wind their way between the tents, a few Azgeda warriors also moving in the early morning, some preparing a large fire for the morning meal, others on watch, the slow patrol through the small camp keeping their bodies warm. 

Clarke and Ontari break from the camp site and bleed into the trees easily, the rustle of the leaves and sticks underfoot muffled by the furs of their boots. Clarke shrugs off her bow, her fingers stretching only briefly as she knocks an arrow to it, the familiar creak at her fingertips bringing a smile to her lips as Ontari mirrors her motion, the other woman grimacing slightly at the pull in her shoulder. Clarke eyes her for a moment then, her gaze worried as she peers at Ontari’s shoulder, but the other woman meets her eyes with a stern look, a frown on her face as she moves forward, her eyes already scanning through the trees and her ears already listening for the telltale sign of prey.

Both women moves through the trees silently, a gentle brushing of a hand against a shoulder or foot against foot, all the communication either needs. It takes them only a moment before they find themselves following the trail of a deer, the slight footprints in the ground enough to guide their way in the daylight that bleeds through the canopy of leaves overhead. Ontari hears it first, her head swivelling carefully to the sound of a twig snapping and the rustling of a deer as it lazes between bushes. And so Clarke comes to a steady crouch besides Ontari, both women drawing their bows as they sight down the length of the arrow. Clarke’s eyes find the dip in Ontari’s arm though, her elbow not quite as high as it should be and so Clarke leans forward just enough for her arrow to take the lead, Ontari’s eyes rolling in answer. And then their arrows snap forward. Clarke’s races out first, the arrow whistling through the trees, Ontari’s close behind. Clarke follows the arrow for just a moment as it curves through the air, as it spins and as it punches into the deer’s side. Ontari’s arrow finds its mark too, the arrow embedding in the deer’s heart. 

Ontari stands quickly, her eyes scanning around them as she stalks to where the deer lies on the ground, blood already pooling out of the two wounds. Clarke watches for a moment longer as Ontari shrugs her bow over a shoulder, the motion easy, but perhaps just a little stiff, and then she steps forward too, her own bow quickly slung over a shoulder as she joins Ontari, the other woman already beginning to tie the deer’s feet.

“Does it hurt?” Clarke asks, as she pulls the arrows free roughly.

“No,” Ontari answers.

“But it’s stiff,” Clarke continues, eyes now looking at Ontari’s face carefully.

“Yes,” Ontari answers after a moment of thought. “I can move it fine,” she finishes.

And so Clarke shrugs, a reluctant smile on her lips as Ontari threads a branch between the deer’s legs, her own desire to prove her capabilities outweighing any discomfort she feels. They lift the deer then, the weight resting upon their shoulders as they begin the long trek back through the trees, daylight beginning to settle more comfortably upon the forest around them. 

“You spend time with the Commander,” Ontari says from behind Clarke after a while, her voice careful in question. 

“What do you mean?” Clarke says, her body tensing only briefly at Ontari’s words.

“I am no fool,” Ontari says. “You sneak out late at night,” and Ontari sighs once, her thoughts solidifying. “And then at day break the Commander arrives.”

“It’s just meetings,” Clarke says in answer.

“You return smelling of her,” Ontari continues harshly.

“What?” 

“The candles. Or the scents,” and Clarke hears Ontari kick at a pebble, the stone skipping across the ground. “I am no fool,” Ontari says once more. “She has candles in her tent, and you return smelling of them.”

And so Clarke comes to a stop suddenly, Ontari cursing briefly as the deer between them sways into her with the sudden change in pace.

“What do you want, Ontari?” and Clarke turns to the other woman, strands of brown hair clinging to Ontari’s forehead. 

“Nothing,” and Clarke raises an eyebrow as they both lower the deer to the ground.

“Nothing?”

“The Commander is not Azgeda,” and Ontari’s chin lifts, her eyes glaring at Clarke for a moment. 

“So? I’m not allowed to interact with anyone outside of our clan?” and Clarke’s hands come to rest on her hips as she returns Ontari’s gaze.

“I do not care who you interact with,” and Ontari steps forward evenly. 

“Then what’s with the questions?” 

“Have you considered that she uses you?” and Ontari holds her gaze. “Have you considered that the Commander merely toys with you? Uses you to gain an advantage over our Kwin?”

“Oh,” and perhaps Ontari’s words give Clarke pause, perhaps she had thought Ontari more preoccupied with other matters.

“You think I am jealous?” and Ontari’s hands come to fist on her hips too. “You think I wish for you to share my bed once more?” 

“No, that’s—” but Clarke’s own words die in her mouth quickly. “I don’t know,” she finishes lamely.

Ontari’s eyes soften though, her hand reaches out and squeezes Clarke’s own. 

“I am no fool,” and a small smile spreads across Ontari’s lips. “I know where we stand,” and she shrugs. “I merely wish for you to be sure and careful,” and Ontari’s chin jerks towards the direction of Ton DC. “I do not wish for you to be a pawn in the Commander’s games.”

“It’s not like that,” Clarke says after a moment, her own stance softening.

“You are sure? I will fight her if she wrongs you.” 

“Yeah,” and Clarke smiles and rolls her eyes for a moment. 

And so Ontari rolls her eyes too before continuing, “I still do not understand what you see in a Trikru woman,” and she bends to lift the deer back onto her shoulder. 

 

* * *

 

The return trip to Ton DC doesn’t take too long, but as they reach the outskirts of the Azgeda camp sight, the sun sits a bit higher in the sky, shadows now beginning to stretch out before them as they weave between the few tents, a large fire already burning, the crackling of wood and the smell of smoke breathing around them.

They find a number of tents already beginning to be packed, Azgeda warriors grouping together in the chill of the morning, though Clarke finds many smiling at the welcomed cold that will soon fall over the lands.

“Others returned before you,” Entani says in greeting, already handing them both a bowl of roasted meats and vegetables and roots as both women drop the deer by their feet.

“When are we heading off?” Clarke asks as a few Azgeda move towards them, the deer’s carcass soon to be carried off to be prepared.

“Soon,” Entani answers, “some Azgeda will remain, Trikru wish to escort us to Arkadia,” she finishes with a sigh, a grunt of disapproval falling from Ontari as she spoons a mouthful past her lips. 

“It has been months, yet they still treat us like children,” Ontari grumbles, annoyance colouring her tone. “We know these lands now, we can move without escort.”

“That’s the problem,” Clarke says, Entani rolling her eyes too. “Would you let Trikru walk around Azgeda lands by themselves if they knew it well?”

Ontari looks up though, steam wafting past her face as she glares harshly at a Trikru scout that walks the edges of their camp. 

“It does not mean I can not complain,” she finishes.

 

* * *

 

The journey from Ton DC to Arkadia is an easy ride, the path wide enough for large numbers of people to travel, and firm enough under-hoof for horse and cart to traverse easily. Trees, much like  the path between the Mountain and Ton DC, spring up on either side, the forest swallowing the path as it winds its way through the greens and browns. There’s even a cool bite to the air that wakes Clarke’s mind fully, that brings a smile to her lips, and to the few Azgeda that travel with her. And so she rolls her shoulders, the slight pain from her encounter with the panther barely a thought as she eyes the sun as it continues to rise slowly. She feels eyes on her though. She feels eyes watch her movements, she feels eyes gaze upon the fresh pelt on her shoulders, that cascades down her back, and she feels eyes on the back of her head where the skull rests easily. But perhaps most importantly, she feels the eyes of Trikru scouts that she is sure shadow her every move from the trees. If only because she is Wanheda, Commander of Death, Mountain Slayer and proud warrior of Azgeda. 

And so Clarke lets her thoughts drift, she lets them wander for a while, the gentle trotting of her horse soothing her thoughts as she leads the small group of warriors deeper and deeper into Trikru lands and towards Arkadia. And it’s times like this, Clarke thinks, when she has time to think, that her mind wanders to the Mountain and its old haunts. And it’s the moments when she has time to think, that she considers whether it was worth the pain, worth the sleepless nights, or the nights where she does sleep an unkind, restless, slumber.

But perhaps for now she can lose herself in the greens of the trees that pass her by, and the blue of the sky and the grey of the clouds that pass overhead when the leaves above thin every so often.

And so, for now, Clarke lets her gaze wander over the rough of the tree bark as her horse trots along, its pace enough to keep part of her mind thinking. She feels the firm wrapping of her father’s watch around her wrist, the leather strap warm and rough against her skin. It surprises her though, to realise that she thinks of her father less, the pain not quite so raw, not so fresh anymore. But she thinks she can feel a small amount of anger at Thelonious, at his words and his excuses and his games. No matter how real they may be. 

Ontari must sense Clarke’s unease though, because her horse comes to trot alongside Clarke’s own, both horses neighing at each other briefly, Ontari’s lighter mare tossing her head back. Ontari eyes Clarke for a moment, a furrow worrying her brow before Clarke smiles at her steadily, her foot coming to nudge Ontari’s own as they continue along in silence.

 

* * *

 

The band of warriors breaks through the trees not long after midday. Before her, Clarke sees what was once the Ark sprawl out in a large clearing, the hulking mass of twisted metal less broken, less wild, than months earlier. The main body of the Ark juts out of the ground, many of the higher levels inaccessible to those who call Arkadia home. To counter this, small buildings have begun to spread out, their designs simple, their materials a combination of woods and scrap metal, wires and rope and roughly welded metal plating. But as Clarke looks over Arkadia, as she eyes the larger building sites, she sees the signs of permanence, of larger buildings already being laid, scaffolding marking the extent to which a building will one day rise up into the sky many stories. But for now Arkadia seems small, seems bustling, seems growing. 

Clarke weaves her horse down the main path as it leaves the cover of trees, the dirt road underfoot slowly becoming more and more paved as she nears the gates of Arkadia. Guards must see the warriors too, she sees one point, another raise a rifle, finger off the trigger as she sights through her scope to identify the warriors who approach, and she must recognise the colours, or perhaps even a face or two, as she lowers the rifle shortly, her arm raising in a friendly, cautious wave, and then a shout rings out, one of greeting, one of alerting. And then the gates open with a groan, the hard metal that bites into the ground swinging open slowly.

Clarke’s horse breaks forward easily, the beast now accustomed to her riding in front, and so she turns her eyes to the guards that patrol the tops of the large walls that surround Arkadia, she eyes those that stand watch in the guard towers and she watches as the Ark’s structure slowly looms overhead, her approach swallowed in the dead stations shadow. And then she arrives. She smiles at a younger child, perhaps not even a teenager, as she swings off her horse and as the reins are taken by the child, wide-eyed and eager. She greets a guard who she recognises only slightly, just a nod sent their way before she turns to face the rest of the Azgeda warriors who accompany her, many of the warriors who are perhaps more healer and building than fighter. If only to share in the knowledge they can gain from Skaikru. 

“Clarke,” and she turns at her name to find Bellamy striding up to her, black guard uniform shining in the sun, rifle over his shoulder. “Here for the usual?” the man asks as he comes to a careful stop before her, his own gaze briefly flicking over her shoulder at the number of Azgeda and Trikru warriors who move about each other carefully, the time in proximity only just tempering their dislike.  

“Yeah,” she answers, already counting the Azgeda who move to stand behind her. 

“Abby’s waiting already,” Bellamy says as he turns towards the Ark’s main body. 

And so Clark and her Azgeda healers fall into line quietly, leathers and furs rustling only slightly as they step over the metal plating that paves the ground in areas, the builders and craftsmen of Azgeda already following another Skaikru as he directs them to the construction sites.

“It is still ugly,” Ontari whispers from besides her as they pass a large building, the occasional Skaikru looking up from the open dining area, large tables and benches lined up next to each other and a fire pit in the centre. 

“You think everything is ugly,” Entani answers easily from somewhere behind them.

“That is not true,” Ontari hisses in answer, retorts and insults quickly exchanged between women, and so Clarke smiles lowly, Torvun’s shadow following hers as she enters the Ark, and as she follows Bellamy deeper and deeper into what was once her home. 

It doesn’t take them long until they come to a familiar set of doors, an access panel glowing and recessed into the wall, and so Bellamy thumbs it, a low beep echoing around the group, the Azgeda with Clarke still somewhat awed at the tech still functioning on the Ark. But then the doors slide open to reveal the med bay. Clarke looks around it quickly, the med bay much smaller than that in the Mountain, but nonetheless still large, many beds lining the walls, a few people in them for cuts, small illnesses and broken bones. She steps into the larger room and scans left to find Jackson in the middle of setting a child’s broken arm, and then she turns right to find Abby, her mother, scrolling through a tablet, another medical trainee standing close by, the young teen blonde haired and shy in her stature.

Abby must hear their entrance though as she looks up with a smile as she finds Clarke walking towards her. Ontari and Entani follow too, Torvun hanging back somewhat as he scans around the room, the other Azgeda healers quickly moving to Jackson as he demonstrates how Skaikru handle broken bones with the help of x-rays. 

“Hi,” Abby says as Clarke comes to a stop in front of her.

“Hi,” and Clarke sees her mother’s eyes glance to Ontari once before she smiles at Entani, the other healer not an uncommon sight by Clarke’s side in these weekly journeys. “Can you check Ontari’s arm?” Clarke says suddenly, Ontari’s quietness not lost on her. 

“Is it still sore?” Abby asks as she eyes Ontari, the other woman kicking Clarke’s heel roughly in protest.

“She’s not really doing the stretches,” Clarke says after Ontari merely grumbles something under her breath.

And so Abby pins Ontari with a stern look before uttering a simple _follow me_ as she turns, the three Azgeda women following, a smug smile on Entani’s lips. 

Abby leads them to a more private part of the med bay where curtains hide many beds and so Abby pauses as she nears one, her eyebrow raising as she finds Clarke and Entani close behind her, as well as Ontari. 

“You’ve all got bad shoulders?” Abby says in jest, just a glance sent to Ontari.

“We are all healers,” Entani shrugs.

“They may watch,” Ontari adds carefully, her gaze turning to the younger girl who remains quietly by Abby’s side. 

And so Abby merely sighs once as she ushers them all behind the curtain before closing the fabric with a swish, her free hand already guiding Ontari to sit on the bed as Entani and Clarke crowd around the bed. 

“You need to step back,” Abby warns quickly as she looks up.

And so Entani and Clarke take a measured pace backwards as they watch as Ontari shrugs off her fur coat, the white and speckled grey-blue falling to her waist to expose her undershirt of cloth and leathers. They come next too, now leaving Ontari in her chest binding, and Clarke’s eyes focus on the scar that runs through Ontari’s shoulder. 

The scar runs deep, that much Clarke can tell. And though it doesn’t quite shock her anymore, the red flesh that wrinkles out around the bullet’s entrance brings a burning to her stomach, and she knows the exit wound will look worse, will be larger. 

“It does not hurt,” Ontari says after a moment, Abby’s hands already taking a gentle hold on her arm as she lifts it carefully.

“But it’s stiff?” Abby questions. 

“Yes,” Ontari answers.

“And you don’t do the stretches and exercises?” Abby continues.

“I use it enough,” Ontari says. “I do not need to wa—”

“What you need to do is what I tell you to do,” Abby snaps quickly, Entani’s eyebrows raising at Ontari’s open mouthed expression. “If you don’t start taking care of yourself then you won’t regain full use of your arm again,” Abby says. “You’re a warrior, correct?” 

“Yes,” Ontari says quietly.

“If you ever want to be a good warrior again then you’ll do as I say. What good are you if you can’t lift a sword?” 

Ontari quiets then, Abby content that her message has at least sunk in somewhat, and so she continues her examinations of Ontari’s arm, the Azgeda warrior remaining quiet, eyes perhaps somewhat sullen as she follows Abby’s careful instructions.

 

* * *

 

Ontari’s examination passes quickly, Abby making note of certain things that she thinks important, and so Clarke lets her mind drift to the conversation she knows she will be faced with in a short while. 

“All done,” Abby says then, already helping Ontari’s arm back into her furs before stepping back as Ontari slides off the edge of the bed. 

“Can I speak with you alone?” Clarke adds in the silence as she worries her lip. 

“Yeah, of course,” and Abby smiles gently at Ontari and Entani, both women casting Clarke a worried look before they both slide out from between the curtains, the silhouettes of other Azgeda healers still milling about. 

“Charlotte, go help Jackson,” Abby says then, the younger girl nodding for a moment before she, too, slips through the curtains.

Abby motions Clarke further into the med bay then, her office the direction they walk. Clarke looks over her shoulder at the many people that surround Jackson, the other doctor in the middle of explaining blood types.

“The girl,” and Clarke’s voice trails off in thought for a moment.

“Charlotte,” Abby answers.

“She’s your new me?” and Clarke smiles for a moment, the blonde girl quietly standing besides  a large Azgeda man, his beard and hair braided and wild.

“Yeah,” Abby smiles quietly. “She has night terrors so I thought giving her something to do would help,” and Abby goes quiet for a moment, her gaze trained on Charlotte and the blonde of her hair. “She could never replace you, Clarke,” and Abby squeezes her hand. “You know that, right?”

“I’m not angry,” and Clarke trails off in thought, and perhaps now, when faced with the moment, she finds herself unsure and uncertain of how to proceed. But they come to Abby’s office, the door sliding shut behind them with a thud and so Clarke settles for merely taking a seat in the free chair as Abby sits in her own.

The silence must stretch on for too long though, because Abby clears her throat awkwardly before voicing something, anything, in the silence.

“Ontari has a lot of scars,” and Abby’s eyes turn to the door, the opaque glass hiding much of the movement outside. “And not just the facial ones,” she finishes, thoughts of the many scars, large and small, that slice through Ontari’s flesh clearly on her mind.

“Yeah,” and Clarke shrugs. “I do, too,” and she motions to her forehead, the cut now just a scab. Abby’s eyes follow Clarke’s motions for a moment as she waves over body. “The ground’s a harsh place to live, we all have our scars,” and as Clarke trails off once more, thoughts turn to the panther she had fought, and how close to death she has come in the last few years she has lived on the ground. “Azgeda is a harsh place,” she finishes.

“What’s it like?” 

“Azgeda?” and Abby nods. “It’s beautiful when the sun rises and sets, when the snow fields turn orange,” and Clarke thinks a smile lifts the corners of her lips. “It’s cold, north, where Canada used to be I think,” and she shrugs. “Ronto is the closest village to where I landed. It’s small, out of the way, on the border of Trikru and Azgeda so the people are a little more friendly than further north.”

“Ontari is from there, too?”

“Yeah,” and Clarke thinks she knows where to her mother’s thoughts run. “She’s nice, despite how she acts.”

“You care for her,” and it comes less question, more statement, less probing and more longing. 

“I do,” and Clarke shrugs once more. “She saved me. Entani, too. Both of them,” and Clarke bites her lip once. “They taught me how to survive in the snow fields of Azgeda, in the winter winds and the cold nights. They trained me to hunt and fight. Without them I’d be dead. Or different,” she finishes, thoughts turning to the Mountain and how Thelonious had held a gun to them both. 

“I’d love to visit one day,” and Abby’s voice goes quiet for a moment. “I wish you’d stay here, but I know it’s not possible,” and Abby smiles warmly, watery and tiredly. “I can see you’ve found a place,” she finishes.

 

* * *

 

And so mother and daughter fall into quiet conversation, they tell stories of things they have done, of places they have seen, despite Abby’s lack of exploration further than just the closest forest, and they discuss life for a while. But Clarke knows time for procrastination has passed when they once more fall into an awkward silence. 

“About dad,” and Clarke thinks the words come out sudden, come out abrupt, her fingers scratching at the watch on her wrist, the motion subconscious, the watch’s presence not quite at the forefront of her thoughts anymore. “You turned him in, didn’t you,” and Clarke meets Abby’s eyes. 

And so Abby quiets, and Clarke thinks she sees surprise, she thinks she sees confusion, anger, regret and hurt and loss. But perhaps most of all, she sees truth. And she sees Abby’s lip tremble, she sees Abby’s tears well once more in her eyes and she thinks she even sees Abby’s fingers grip tightly in her lap. 

“Yes,” and Abby’s voice comes quiet, it comes tearful, full of pain. 

And Clarke finds herself unsure of how to react to this answer, perhaps she had thought denial, refutation, lies or even avoidance would come. But truth? So abruptly? She thinks herself unprepared for that. 

“Why?”

“I’m not making excuses,” Abby starts quietly, “I wish I could take it back. But I thought— maybe I was a fool, maybe I was selfish, stupid. But I thought if Thelonious knew then he could talk your father out of it,” and Abby finishes mournfully, her words trailing off.

And Clarke isn’t quite so sure what she feels in this moment. She thinks years ago she may have been angry, she may have been heartbroken. But after all she’s done, she finds herself unwilling to feel much. Or perhaps she is merely unable to after…

“I don’t think I can ever forgive you for it,” Clarke says, and she sees acceptance in her mother’s eyes. “If I was younger, if I had found out earlier, years ago even, maybe I’d be furious, maybe I’d be angry. But I’m tired of it. I’m sick of it,” and she shrugs, her gaze steady as she looks into her mother’s gaze. “I need some time alone,” Clarke finishes as she stands. 

“I understand,” Abby says, and Clarke thinks she sees those same thoughts living in her mother’s eyes too. She thinks she sees a tiredness, the years of pain and loss and regret having etched a permanence across Abby’s flesh.

 

* * *

 

It’s quiet. It’s almost too quiet. Or perhaps it’s not quite quiet enough. If only because that constant humming seems to echo out through the walls. Something that’s not quite audible, something not quite so loud that it could find its way into a person’s waking thoughts. But it’s there. And so Clarke breathes in deeply, the old roughness of her bed something that brings a smile, both bittersweet and lost, upon her lips. 

She had been surprised when she had entered her old quarters to find her old belongings still in place, or perhaps not quite everything. Some things lie broken, haphazard and dusty. But enough remains that she finds a comfort in lying on her old bed. In her old quarters, in an old time. But she can’t quite force herself to look upon the pictures that remain, the ones of a happy family, of a whole family. And so she closes her eyes, breathes in deeply and lets her mind wander, lets her thoughts drift, and perhaps it’s a dangerous exercise to welcome those thoughts, to welcome those demo—

A chime rings out quietly, shrilly, through the room.

And so Clarke rises, her hand rubbing roughly at her eyes in the dark of the room. She pads her way over the rough of the metal flooring and then she comes to a stop at the doors, her finger already reaching for the release. 

“Ontari,” and it comes out surprised, it comes out cautious. 

“You disappeared,” is all Ontari says as she pushes past Clarke carefully. And so Clarke smiles as she follows Ontari’s motions, the other woman coming to stand in the centre of the small quarters.  “This is where you once lived?” and Ontari looks over her shoulder at Clarke. 

“Yeah,” and it’s a shrug, a bashful thing. 

There’s a pause, Ontari’s gaze trailing over every surface for a long moment.

“It is ok,” and it comes careful, quiet. “Not as ugly as outside.”

Clarke sits on the edge of her bed then, her hand patting the rough mattress, and so Ontari sits besides her, their shoulders brushing for a moment as both women find themselves in a quiet moment.

“You really should do the exercises,” Clarke says. “It will help.”

“I will do them,” and Ontari smiles quietly, bashfully, her shoulder lifting in a halfhearted, stiff, shrug. 

“Good,” and Clarke finds her fingers winding their way through Ontari’s hand. 

“You are ok, Clarke,” and perhaps at Ontari’s words, Clarke can’t quite tell if they are question, if they are statement. But perhaps having a friend with her in this moment is enough.  At least for now. 

“Yeah,” and Clarke thinks she smiles at Ontari’s lack of probing, her lack of needing to know what bothers, what pains her. 

“Entani is with the others, Torvun is outside,” Ontari continues after a moment. “The others wish to return soon, before nightfall sets in,” and she squeezes Clarke’s hand once. 

“Yeah, we ca—”

And her words are cut out by the piercing bellow of a horn as it echoes out through the metal of the walls. 

“The northern Azgeda are here?” and Ontari’s words come surprised, shocked, her eyebrows raising as her head turns to the direction of the sound.

 

* * *

 

It’s a quick rush out of her old quarters, Torvun waiting outside, his fist gripping the knife strapped to his hip as he glances left and right as they pass corridor after corridor. They find a number of Skaikru watching as they pass, questions in their gazes, ears searching for the sound of the horn. It doesn’t take them long until they meet with other Azgeda, Trikru present and tense at the unwelcome arrival of more Azgeda. 

And so Clarke breaks out into the late afternoon sun, Skaikru guards already at the walls, rifles held awkwardly in hands as they face out, the sounds of horses, the sounds of warriors cascading over Arkadia’s walls. 

“What’s happening?” Clarke asks the nearest Azgeda, the older woman shrugging once.

“I do not know,” and the woman squints into the sky for a moment in thought. “We were packing and then Azgeda arrived.”

And so Clarke worries her lip for a moment before jogging towards where the gates remain shut, Bellamy nervously peering through an opening as he barks out questions to the Azgeda that stand outside. 

“Move, Bellamy,” is all Clarke says before she pushes past him, Torvun stepping closer as Bellamy takes a step backwards, Clarke already peering through the small window in the gates. 

And perhaps Clarke would laugh. Perhaps she would cry, perhaps she would flee or break down in another life. But as her eyes land on the leader she feels a clenching in her stomach, she feels the prickling on the back of her neck and she feels the tremble in her fingers as she begins pulling open the gates, the muscle in her back straining.

And then the gates lie open.

“Hello, Clarke,” Nia says.


	6. Chapter 6

Clarke stares for only a moment, enough for Nia’s eyes to shift over the dark pelt draped across her shoulders and the skull that peeks over her head. And then Nia’s eyes snap back to Clarke’s own, her gaze careful, light, perhaps even happy.

“Kwin Nia,” Ontari says, her momentary shock at Nia’s presence quickly replaced by deference as she bows her head before kneeling before her. “You honour us with your presence,” she finishes as she rises, her gaze lowered as she nudges Clarke ruefully from behind to follow the bow that she and Torvun both send to Nia.

And so Clarke bows too, uncertainty, shock and confusion swirling within her mind, a small greeting leaving her lips. And then she rises to find Nia dismounted, her horse neighing quietly behind her. Clarke eyes the large beast for a long moment, she finds its hairs longer, thicker, warm furs draped over its back. She even sees the many Azgeda that stand quietly behind Nia, their eyes shifting from face to face, from Skaikru to Azgeda to Trikru, just small flashes of distrust, disgust finding a place upon their expressions. 

“We wish to rest for the night,” Nia says easily as she strides through the gates, the closest warriors moving with her, clearly royal guards from the whiteness of their furs and the way they huddle far too close to Nia despite not causing her step to falter. 

And so Clarke nods nervously, her mind quickly coming to terms with who stands before, and with who doesn’t stand before her. 

“There are stables, Kwin Nia,” Clarke begins as she gestures towards one of the largest buildings that sits near the open gates. “Our horses can find shelter there,” she finishes, gaze looking pointedly at the closest Skaikru guard.

“Good,” Nia says in answer, her hand coming to rest against the sword at her hip, the bone of the pommel shining as it catches the setting sun’s light. “So this is Skaikru,” she says, her steps thudding just quietly enough to announce her presence as she walks besides Clarke. 

“Yes Kwin Nia,” Clarke answers, Ontari already walking quickly besides her, Entani and Torvun following close behind. Nia stops her forward movements though, her furs rustling in the wind as she casts her gaze around once more, her eyes taking in all that she can see. 

Clarke takes the moment of silence to look back to the main gates to find perhaps a hundred Azgeda have come with Nia. She finds some already setting up tents outside the gates, some already moving off into the trees to hunt and some beginning to set up a camp site, a fire soon to follow. But what catches Clarke’s eye the most is that these warriors all share similar scars, half circles that curve across flesh, some from eyebrow to eyebrow in an arc, others with scars on their chins or the sides of heads. 

“Torvun,” and Nia turns to face Torvun as he nods to a few others who nod back in recognition as they part for him to approach. “You have done well to keep Clarke alive,” Nia says. 

“Thank you, Kwin Nia,” Torvun says, his head bowing once more. “If I may, Kwin Nia?” and he pauses his question, eyes still averted for just long enough for Nia to raise an eyebrow in acknowledgement before he meets her eyes. “I would wish to continue to serve as Clarke’s guard.”

“Why? May I ask?” Nia says, her eyes only once meeting Clarke’s before she looks at Torvun fully. 

“Wanheda has enemies, Kwin,” Torvun begins. “An—”

“Trikru enemies?” Nia cuts in.

“No, Kwin Nia,” and Torvun looks once to the Trikru who stand back, gazes careful as they take in the large number of Azgeda now making themselves at home within and without Arkadia’s walls. “But those that escaped the Mountain’s death may try to take revenge on Clarke, Kwin Nia. I would wish to continue to protect her if it would please you.”

“Very well, Torvun,” Nia says easily. 

The guards closest to Nia turn quickly at the sound of approaching feet, the harsher thump announcing a non Azgeda person nears. Clarke turns too, and she finds Kane walking up nervously, Bellamy and another Skaikru guard with him, a blonde woman that Clarke remembers from the Mountain’s fall. Kane comes to a stop, an Azgeda guard moving in front of him as he barks out an order for him to halt. 

“Stand easy, Teril,” Nia says, her hand waving the large man back, his eyes narrowing at Bellamy’s rifle that is held firmly in his hands.

“Kwin Nia,” Kane begins as the large guard, Teril, stands back, his hand resting comfortably upon a wicked knife that remains sheathed across his ribs. “It is an honour to meet you,” Kane finishes as he bows his head once, protocol on how to greet her having clearly been shown to him by Ontari’s actions mere minutes ago. “My name is Marcus Kane, Kwin Nia, Chancellor of Skaikru,” he finishes as he straightens.

“Marcus Kane of Skaikru,” and Nia casts her gaze over the remnants of the Ark, the buildings that remain half constructed and the paved ground and high walls and towers that surround the fallen Ark. “You have made an impressive keep for Skaikru to hold,” she smiles warmly, a hand extending. 

Clarke watches the interaction, Kane happy to fall into discussion on Skaikru’s future plans on expansion granted Lexa’s blessing, their construction methods, the materials they use and the technology they still have functioning. Nia begins walking the perimeter, Kane close behind her as he continues to talk, and as both leaders exchange pleasantries Clarke finds herself worrying her lip, thoughts of Roan in chains flooding her mind, thoughts of how dangerous a situation she may be in lingering not far behind her eyes. 

“Forgive me, Kwin Nia, but where is Prince Roan?” Ontari says as conversation lulls, her head cocked to the side in thought as she turns to survey the Azgeda who make camp. “Is he serving in your stead at the capital?”

Nia turns to face Ontari, her eyes softening briefly as she smiles before finding Clarke’s gaze. 

“You performed a great service to Azgeda, Clarke, by securing Prince Roan’s release,” Nia begins, “Prince Roan is currently performing duties elsewhere,” Nia answers, Ontari bowing her head once more. “Clarke,” Nia continues, “you will dine with me tonight,” she finishes with a smile before turning to Kane once more, conversation starting up again as she continues to walk through Arkadia’s ground.

 

* * *

 

Clarke finds herself sitting on a bench outside, her eyes following Azgeda forces as they move through the small camp that spreads out beyond the walls of Arkadia. Shadows lengthen now, too, the sun already beginning to set, and so she lets her mind wander, lets it focus on the conversation she is sure will soon be had, and she thinks things are dangerous now, she thinks Nia plays a careful game. But she looks up at the sounds of footsteps approaching to find Abby walking towards her cautiously. 

“Hi,” Clarke says in greeting, her mother coming to stand awkwardly before her. “You can sit,” she finishes as she gestures to the space besides her. 

Abby takes a seat then, her fingers twisting together for a moment as she considers her words.

“I met Kwin Nia,” she begins, “she seems nice,” Abby finishes. 

“Yeah,” Clarke answers, her eyes peering around her in search of too close ears. 

“I’m still not over the scars,” Abby says despite Clarke’s lack of words, “it must be a painful procedure.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” Clarke shrugs, a finger coming to trace the raised edges of the scar across her forehead.

“If I could take it back I would,” Abby says after a moment, her voice falling away at the end.

“I know,” Clarke says as she turns to face her mother. “I understand,” and she wipes a finger across her eyes. “I do,” and she bites her lip, the trembling in her fingers enough to draw Abby’s attention. “But I still hate the decision you made,” she finishes. 

And she thinks Abby understands her words, she thinks Abby even accepts the words. 

“I’m proud of you, Clarke,” Abby says, her words now more quiet. “I know you might not want to here it, but I am. I’m so, so proud that you found a place, that you found a people here,” and Abby’s hand comes to squeeze her own briefly before releasing it. “And I know your father would be too.”

“Yeah,” Clarke answers once more, her thoughts still slightly too numb to articulate more than just a few words.

“I’ll let you have some time alone,” Abby smiles warmly then before she stands, a wave sent to Clarke before she turns and heads back to the main structure of the Ark, her medical coat swaying lazily in the cool breeze.

And so Clarke stays seated on the bench, the occasional Azgeda warrior sending her a greeting as they pass, her own returned to them with a smile. But she thinks she plays a dangerous game now, she thinks her gamble fell through, that Roan might not even live anymore, and that Nia knows her plans, had got them out of Roan before he was killed quietly and then buried in an unmarked grave in the snowfields of Azgeda. But she thinks herself not one to roll over and show her belly, she knows herself too stubborn to take such a setback lying down, and so she sighs just once, she takes a deep breath and holds it for a long moment and then she stands, her destination already in mind. 

 

* * *

 

The Ark still echoes out around her, the halls still hum with the recycled air that rushes through, but at least this time it is less stale, less manufactured, if only because the air she breathes is fresh air brought in from outside. And so she finds herself face to face with Raven’s workshop, the other woman elbow deep in machinery as she curses quietly behind a face shield, hands trying to pull apart a large engine that sits on the ground. 

Clarke enters cautiously, a haphazard trail of machinery strewn about, carcasses of old engines, of old technology that have died unceremoniously to Raven’s often grimy hands.

“Hi Raven,” Clarke calls out over the din of sparks and buzzing.

Raven looks up at her name being called before smiling a wide, toothy grin as she lifts the face shield.

“Clarke,” and she stands, wipes her hands on her pants, “what’s up?” 

“I need a favour,” Clarke begins.

“Yeah, what’s the favour?” Raven asks, her thumb rubbing at a grease stain on her forearm.

“Can you get me three radios no questions asked?”

“Sure,” Raven shrugs, “that’s easy, we’ve got a lot lying around,” and Raven turns for a moment as she eyes a large pile of what seems like junk to Clarke. “Do you want it easy to hide or long range?”

“How small can you make them?” 

“About this small,” and Raven holds up a radio from nearby, “we’ve got bigger ones, but I’m assuming you don’t want to be carrying around a large radio,” she finishes.

“Yeah,” Clarke smiles as she rubs her neck briefly. “Thanks.”

“No problem, Clarke,” Raven says. “Take this one,” and she passes Clarke the radio in her hand, “I’ll get the others to you by tomorrow morning?” 

“Thanks, Raven,” Clarke says as she turns from Raven, the brunette already beginning to work on the task.

And as Clarke treads out the room she finds herself thankful, she finds herself enjoying the small moments she shares with the other woman, however short they may be. 

 

* * *

 

It’s dread. That she is sure of. Or perhaps it’s an eagerness, it’s an anticipation of things to come. But Clarke thinks she should feel anxious, should feel worried. And so she squares her shoulders, brushes her furs once more and she begins the short walk to Nia’s tent, Ontari giving her a nervous smile from a campfire that burns dutifully in front of the gathered warriors.

Clarke comes to a stop in front of the large tent, Teril, Nia’s guard from earlier standing in her way. Clarke takes a moment to take him in then, and she finds him young, perhaps not much older than herself, but she thinks she sees the lines of a scar that sneak out past the furs on his shoulders, scars that speak of a wound, of a battle that almost claimed his life. She finds him to be large, muscles that cord and bend and hold his body rigid. His face looks bronzed from the time spent in the harshness of the sun that bounces against the white of Azgeda snow fields. She eyes the short hair that he wears too, all of it shaved close to the scalp, three scars stacked atop each other, arcs that start from the corner of his mouth that rise and curve behind his ears, cutting a swathe of hairless flesh against both sides of his head, as if an animal had raked its claws against his scalp. But perhaps what catches her eyes the most is the quiet mirth, the quiet glint that she thinks lingers in his eyes as they wander over her body briefly.

“I am here to see Kwin Nia,” Clarke says as she looks up at him, the grey of his eyes narrowing to her knife and the furs she wears.

“Spread,” he says, hands gesturing for her arms and legs to widen. And so Clarke steps shoulder width apart and raises her arms. Teril makes short work of patting her down, his hands barely skimming her body as he thumbs over the creases of her legs and arms in search of hidden weapons. “Turn,” and he gestures once before running his hands over her back, the black pelt across her shoulders and then he inspects the panther’s skull. “This was a fresh kill,” he says when she turns to face him, his gaze peering at the skull peeking over her head. 

“Yeah,” Clarke shrugs in answer before tapping her forehead, the cut slowly healing. “It got me too,” she shrugs.

“Perhaps you will enjoy the Northern Hunts,” he says with a smirk. “Far greater beasts await the worthy,” he finishes as he swings open the furs that hide the entrance of Nia’s tent. 

Stepping into Nia’s tent is not unlike stepping into a storied past. Clarke finds pelts, furs and relics of old hunts lying strewn across the corners of the tents, antlers, skeletons, all glowing quietly in the light of a fire that burns in the centre of the room. Behind the fire Clarke finds Nia’s throne, and between it and the burning flame a table lies, foods and plates and drinks laying atop it, another chair at one end.

Nia sits in her throne too, her eyes meeting Clarke’s. And so Clarke bows once more, and she feels Teril do the same before he takes a stand in the corner of the room, the shadows quickly swallowing him as he recedes into the dark. 

“Clarke,” and Nia stands, her arm gesturing to the free chair. “I hope you are hungry,” she finishes with a smile, the scars across her face catching the flickering of the flame.

“Yes, Kwin Nia,” Clarke begins as she steps carefully around the open fire. 

Clarke’s eyes catch movement then, and she finds a servant stepping forward, a quiet presence that Clarke assumes will remain voiceless for the night. She watches as the woman bows her head once before she pulls the chair out, a clear invitation for Clarke to sit. And so Clarke whispers a quiet thank you as she finds herself sitting across from Nia, the older woman smiling kindly at the servant before turning her attention back to Clarke.

“Please, eat, Clarke,” and Nia gestures once, the servant quickly piling an assortment of fruits and breads, and cheeses onto a plate, and filling a bowl with a meat broth, its scents sweet and spiced.

And so Clarke takes the food offered to her with another quiet thank you before she waits for Nia to begin, her own food already placed in front of her. 

“You do not have to wait for me, Clarke,” Nia says as she begins eating, her knife slashing through a large vegetable with practised ease. And so Clarke thinks she grimaces internally, her fingers gripping the spoon tightly for just a moment before she begins to eat. 

They eat in a quiet silence for a short while, and Clarke thinks that if she didn’t have such a secret, then it could have perhaps been pleasant, but in this moment she thinks she feels the eyes of Teril drilling into her, and she knows she feels his hand ever present on the throwing knife she had spied, his aim surely trained on her back should she make a move. The servant offers her food too, berries and slices of cheeses when she finishes those on her plate. Clarke takes the time to eye the servant then, and she thinks from the scars on her fingers, that the servant must be a trained warrior, if only because her hands speak of a life handling blades. But Clarke’s gaze travels up her arms, the corded, wiry muscles shining, and the dark of the servant’s skin glowing quietly in the flames that flicker. 

Clarke thinks it strange too, that a woman of such a complexion would be of Azgeda decent, or perhaps it makes sense, if only because Clarke eyes the scar that blemishes the woman’s cheek, that cuts and dips into the top of her lip. And as Clarke takes her in, she thinks the woman is perhaps a spy, an assassin, one trained, one chosen, because she does not look Azgeda. But she thinks the woman serves Nia personally now, the scar now giving away her abilities, her background, her experience in having survived a mortal fight.

“Tell me, Clarke,” Nia says, Clarke pausing midway through bringing the spoon to her lips. “How are things at the Mountain?”

“Good, Kwin Nia,” she begins, her thoughts turning to the work that has been done, and the work that remains to be completed. “We are able to grow many vegetables and fruits using the Mountain’s power,” she begins, “trade has been successful between the Mountain and the other clans,” and Nia smiles once more at these words. “We are able to use what the Mountain has to heal, too,” and Clarke can’t help but let a small smile linger at the enhanced capabilities the clans now have with both Arkadia and the Mountain providing medical aid.

“That is wonderful, Clarke,” and Nia flips her knife through her fingers just once before letting it lay on the table top. “You have made Azgeda proud,” and she smiles widely, her teeth shining. “You have made me proud,” she finishes, fingers now trailing over the edge of the blade.

“Thank you, Kwin Nia,” Clarke swallows once. 

“It is important for us to be ready for anything,” Nia continues quietly, her eyes moving to the servant who stands quietly to the side, her gaze focused on Clarke, a curiosity living in the dark of her eyes. Nia sweeps her hand around the tent then, eyes moving from skeletal relic to fur to pelt. “Take, for example, all these trophies,” and she smiles once. “Tell me, Clarke, what do they say of me?”

And so Clarke lets her gaze follow the way the trophies lie around the tent, she lets her mind turn back to the time she had seen Nia in her throne room, the large building only holding furs that hung from the ceiling and draped the walls. 

“It says that you are capable, Kwin Nia,” Clarke answers, Nia’s eyebrow raising once. “It says you are not afraid to get your hands dirty, and to do things the way you wish for them to be done,” and Clarke sees a small smile spread across Nia’s face once more. 

“I see,” Nia muses.

“But,” and Clarke trails off once more, thoughts sifting, thoughts coalescing. “It is also a trick,” and she finds Nia’s eyes more careful now, more quiet in the dark. “Anyone who would have seen your throne room would expect for you to keep your tent neat, Kwin Nia, they would assume you may not travel with much.” 

“And what does that say, Clarke?” Nia asks, her smile more happy, more free. 

“You are careful,” and Clarke shrugs. “If one was to meet you here then it would give them pause, it would make them reconsider you, reconsider what they know about you,” and Clarke eyes Nia as she continues to brush a finger over the knife’s edge. “And for assassins it would make it harder for them to sneak in without tripping,” and at the end of her words Clarke thinks Nia nods to herself once more. 

And so Nia leans forward, picks up her knife and flips it over her hand once. “I do not have the luxury of training so openly as my warriors do,” Nia says after a moment. “As I am sure you understand, it is prudent for many to not know of our capabilities, Clarke,” and Nia pauses for just a moment before she flings the knife harshly towards her servant.

Clarke’s head whips around with the knife as it whistles through the air, and she lets out just a small gasp as the knife imbeds itself into the wood of a pillar mere hair’s breadth from the woman’s face.    

“I am sure you are tired, Clarke,” Nia says as she stands, her hand gesturing for Clarke to do so as well, “and I will not keep you any longer.” 

And so Clarke takes her leave, a quiet _thank you_ falling from her lips as she bows once more to Nia before she exits the tent, her mind tired and weary and her body tense and uneasy.

 

* * *

 

Clarke knows she will find sleep quickly, the day’s events having drained her of energy, and so she enters her tent with a nod to Torvun who remains ever present outside. She finds Entani undressing tiredly, Ontari already laying in the bed, arm wrapped around a pillow as she breathes in deeply, sleep already having taken hold.

“She did not say it,” Entani begins quietly as Clarke begins pulling her furs off, “but I think doing the exercising pains her,” and Entani sighs once as she unwraps her chest binding. “She should have listened earlier,” she grunts out as she slips on a sleep shirt before crawling into the furs. 

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees, her own clothes quickly falling away as she climbs into the furs besides Ontari, “but she’ll get better with time,” and Clarke smiles softly as she hears Entani grunt out an answer, her voice husky with sleep.

 

* * *

 

Clarke wakes quickly, sounds of commotion echoing out through the tent and the surrounding campsite. Ontari sits up quickly too, her eyes squinting only briefly as she rubs a hand across her face before prodding Entani behind Clarke’s back. 

Clarke hears a shout of warning then, and so it only takes them a moment before they roll out of the furs, grab the closest weapons they can find and then they burst out of the tent, Torvun already standing, his eyes casting the three women just a brief look before they start moving in the direction of the Azgeda warriors that run from their tents, some wearing furs, some half dressed, all with weapons in their hands. 

“What’s going on, Torvun?” Clarke asks as they make their way forward.

“Trikru come in numbers,” he replies gruffly.

And so Clarke finds herself at the forefront of the Azgeda forces, many of the group coming to stand before the Trikru warriors that gather not far from their campsite. Clarke finds perhaps triple their number, Trikru warriors all staring angrily at the Azgeda gathered before them, and Clarke thinks she hears the shouts of Bellamy carry over the wind, the Skaikru guards clearly taken aback by the large number of warriors who have now gathered outside their gates.

Clarke’s attention is drawn to the leader of the Trikru who approaches to find Anya atop her horse. Anya’s gaze moves across the Azgeda for a moment, a sneer upon her lips, and then she dismounts, feet landing with a thud as she begins walking forward, a few Trikru coming up besides her.

Clarke finds that Ontari steps forward, too, her eyes glaring at Anya, both women gripping the hilts of their swords, and so Clarke moves with Ontari, Torvun and Entani close behind, a few other Azgeda stepping forward until their numbers match, the small Trikru and Azgeda group now standing in front of one another.

“Do Azgeda always meet a potential threat half dressed?” Anya snorts as she eyes Clarke and Ontari, both women in simple shirts and small shorts. 

“Do Trikru meet a friendly Azgeda force, that was requested by the Commander, with such large numbers?” Teril answers evenly, himself stepping forward so that he meets Anya’s gaze. 

“You were expected at Ton DC,” Anya snaps back. “Yet we find you here,” and she meets Clarke’s gaze briefly before meeting Teril’s once more. “You will forgive us for not appreciating your lack of informing us of your actions,” she says. “Where is Kwin Nia?” 

“She is busy,” Teril answers. 

“I wish to meet with her,” Anya snaps. “The Commander wishes to know what her excuse is for not obeying an order.”

And at Anya’s words a few Azgeda growl out quietly, hands gripping swords more tightly. 

“You will meet with her when she wishes for you to,” Teril answers curtly. “Now move your forces away and into the trees or we will defend ourselves.” 

 

* * *

 

“Not even going to lie, Clarke,” Raven says, “I seriously thought you guys were about to throw down in your underwear,” she says with a nervous laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people go from asleep to awake and ready to fight in such a short amount of time.”

“Trikru snuck up on us on purpose,” Clarke grumbles, fingers pulling the rest of her furs on as Raven takes a seat on a small stool. “They wanted to catch us off guard, make an example, give a warning.”

“Yeah, we got their message alright, Bellamy almost lost his mind when the Trikru stormed out from the trees,” Raven says. “I get that both clans don’t really like each other, but is it really worth getting killed over? Can’t you guys talk it out?”

“It’s not that easy,” Clarke answers tiredly, a yawn escaping her lips as she stands and slips her knife into its place. “You know that,” and she raises an eyebrow at Raven, the brunette nodding quietly to herself, boot kicking at the ground, memories of the Mountain clear in her mind. 

“Yeah, I guess I do,” she says. “The radios are in the bag, too,” she whispers. “There’s extra batteries, and I even hooked you up with a small solar generator, so you can recharge them when they go dead, but they should last a while.”

“Thanks, Raven,” and Clarke reaches out and squeezes her upper arm briefly.

 

* * *

 

Perhaps ironically, or perhaps stupidly, Clarke finds that the agreed upon meeting between Azgeda and Trikru is taking place within Arkadia, the closest to neutral ground that they have access to. And so Clarke thumbs her knife worriedly as Kane introduces the Skaikru present. And so Clarke eyes Bellamy and Finn who stand awkwardly behind Kane, weapons slung over their shoulders, and she eyes Abby whose head turns from face to face she sees, eyes taking in the scars of the Azgeda warriors and the Trikru tattoos. 

Nia steps forward, her hands clasped in front of her as she smiles briefly at Anya. 

“What is it that you wish to know?” Nia begins. 

“Why did Azgeda not arrive at Ton DC?” Anya begins, glare firmly in place. “You would purposely keep the Commander waiting? You would defy her rule?” and she jabs an angry finger towards Nia only to be met with a growl from Teril who steps forward. 

“Azgeda does no such thing,” Nia says cooly, “we heard that Wanheda was visiting her old people,” and Nia inclines her head towards Kane and the other Skaikru who watch the exchange of words, “Azgeda saw it prudent to pay its respects,” she finishes. 

And so Anya glares for a long moment, her jaw clenching and her fingers twitching by her side. 

“Very well,” Anya says eventually. “You and your forces will be escorted to Ton DC and then to Polis, we will not allow you to move through Trikru lands unaccompanied for the remainder of your journey.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Nia finishes easily before she smirks just once before turning to the door, her guards quickly circling her as she moves out of the room. 

Clarke makes to follow Nia too, her gaze meeting Abby’s for a moment before she slips from the room. But she pauses at Anya’s words, the older woman calling out angrily.

“Wanheda, remain,” and Clarke looks to Nia who nods just once to her. And so she turns to face Anya staring angrily her way. “Everyone else but Wanheda leave,” and she glares at Ontari who remains close by Clarke’s side. 

“What do you want?” Clarke says after the door slides shut to leave her and Anya alone in the room. 

“The Commander,” and Clarke sees Anya’s jaw clench even more tightly, and she thinks she even hears the growl that breathes past the Trikru general’s lips. “The Commander wishes for you to know that Arkadia and Skaikru will be protected while Azgeda remains within striking distance.”

“I,” and Clarke’s chin raises defiantly, “am Azgeda, too.”

“But you are not Nia,” Anya retorts. “She will have plans, you know that, Lexa knows that and you are not stupid,” Anya finishes. 

“So what?” 

“The Trikru here will remain at Arkadia until Nia takes her forces away or until Roan takes control of Azgeda,” Anya answers. 

“And what am I supposed to tell Nia?” Clarke says, arms coming to fold in front of her. 

“Tell her that Trikru protect Skaikru from attacks from those that fled the Mountain, and that Trikru healers and craftsmen wish to learn more from Skaikru,” Anya says. “Are you content with these arrangements?” Anya finishes.

“Yeah,” Clarke shrugs, “I guess so.” 

“Good,” Anya says as she begins moving to the door, “pack your things. We leave for Polis soon.”


	7. Chapter 7

It doesn’t take the Azgeda forces much time to pack, and as Clarke sidles up to her horse she finds a number of Skaikru also waiting, eyes nervous as they look from Azgeda to Trikru, both clans glaring sharply at each other.

“We’re coming with you,” Raven says with an awkward wave, Kane close by her side as he talks with Bellamy and Monty. “Apparently the Commander has requested Skaikru representation,” Raven finishes.

“You volunteered to come?” Clarke asks, eyes quickly taking in the sturdy clothes that Raven and the others wear for the journey. 

“Not really,” and Raven shrugs with a smile. “But we figured it’d be best to send people who can show that Skaikru is good for the Coalition, so Monty and I were volunteered.”

Clarke smiles briefly, and she is sure both Raven and Monty will be able to show the benefits of the tech that Skaikru can provide. And she hopes it will be enough to keep Skaikru from the Coalition’s ire. 

Clarke feels the prickle on the back of her neck though, and she feels the approaching feet and so she turns carefully, eyes just slightly guarded as she comes face to face with Wells, the dark skinned man nervous as he takes in her appearance and the frown she thinks must sit on her face.

“Hi, Clarke,” Wells begins, hand raising just slightly before it drops to his side. 

“Hi,” and Clarke lets her gaze take him in, and she knows she will need to speak to him soon, will need to discuss the unspoken awkwardness that lingers, and she knows that apologies will need to be made. But for now she settles for a question and a small bridging of the space between them. “You’re coming to Polis?” she says as she peers at the bag over his shoulders and the heavy jacket he wears.

“Yeah,” and he shrugs just once, eyes briefly flicking to Raven before back to her. “Kane wants met to help in the meetings we’re probably going to be in.”

“I’m sure everything will be fine,” and Clarke lifts a corner of her lips, thumb scuffing at the handle of her knife as she kicks at the ground for a moment. 

“Ok,” Raven says as she looks from Clarke to Wells, “what ever the fuck is going on between you two is too awkward for me, I’m out,” and she turns and walks to Octavia, the young warrior huddled with a group of Trikru warriors.

“I know you didn’t turn my father in,” Clarke blurts out only to grimace at the lack of subtlety, and her decision to apparently have this conversation right now.

“I…” and Wells lets his mouth open once, lets his eyes widen for a moment. 

“Why?” and Clarke frowns, mind trying to consider the events that had happened. 

“You lost one parent,” and Wells winces, “I didn’t want you to lose both,” and he looks away for a moment, eyes landing somewhere on the Ark as it juts up from the ground. 

“I’m sorry,” and it comes out a whisper, but she thinks it strange that she now accepts the lack of pain, the lack of hurt and anger. 

“It’s ok,” and Wells smiles for a moment, and it’s only a small smile, but Clarke follows it with her own. 

“It’s not,” and she finds herself looking away too, “we should talk more when we’ve got time,” and she eyes a number of Azgeda who already begin moving, some atop horses, others in lighter furs and leathers, scouts that will soon bleed into the trees.

“Yeah,” and Wells nods his head, the smile only now finding its way to the corner of his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Things are tense and it isn’t lost on Clarke that memories of the first time she had travelled through Trikru lands now surface. Nia rides atop her horse, the beast surrounded by a large number of guards, Teril ever present by her side, his own horse happy to meander through the trees. The only difference this time is that the Azgeda warriors ride together, and Clarke is sure it is Nia’s way of sending a message, of telling the Trikru that she doesn’t fear attack from them, or perhaps it’s to laugh in their face, to say that Trikru would be useless in an attack. But Clarke finds herself peering at the many more Trikru that ride with them, that move through the trees and that break off into the distance, only to be replaced by others, tactics Clarke is sure, are to make it harder for Azgeda to ascertain the number that travel with them. Ontari rides besides her too, the other warrior’s gaze moving from the Trikru then back to Nia, the Kwin’s presence clearly leaving her more nervous, more cautious of attack. 

Clarke lets her thoughts drift though, the journey to Ton DC long enough for her to let her mind wander. And so it does. She finds herself peering up into the trees occasionally, the wind that rushes through the canopy overhead swaying the leaves and branches and giving her glimpses of the cool blue of the sky. 

Skaikru ride awkwardly between the Azgeda and Trikru forces, the few who were chosen to travel to Polis not quite as sure and certain on their horses. Clarke winces slightly as she watches Raven  shift inelegantly in her saddle, the horse clearly used to Raven’s poor riding skills, and she eyes Monty who rides besides the mechanic, his eyes trained on the ground in front of him. She watches as Kane ducks under a low hanging branch just a touch more gracefully, and she watches as Bellamy and harper share words quietly, both with rifles slung over shoulders. Wells rides besides Octavia, both of them talking as Lincoln follows behind them silently.

“They are useless on horseback,” Ontari says as she brings her horse closer to Clarke’s. 

“That one will fall soon,” Entani adds, a smile in her voice as she watches Raven get hit in the head with a branch.

“They’re learning,” Clarke shrugs. “I wasn’t that great when I first started.”

“You still are not,” Ontari jokes, her foot kicking at Clarke’s. 

“Ever been to Polis?” Clarke asks with a quiet laugh of her own, ignoring the chuckle that escapes past Entani’s lips.

“No,” Ontari says, Entani nodding her agreement. 

“I have travelled there before,” Torvun says from behind them, his horse slowly nudging its way next to Clarke’s as Ontari glares at him, her horse slowly forced aside.

“What’s it like?” Clarke asks, her mind conjuring up images of castles, of great markets, of vast buildings and grounds. Or perhaps it is merely one large tent knowing Lexa’s liking. “Any castles?” 

“No,” Torvun answers. “There are no castles,” and he runs a hand through his beard briefly as he thinks of how best to describe the capital. “There is a large tower that the Commander resides in, ambassadors and honoured guests are quartered there.”

“That’s it?” Clarke asks.

“It is like any other large town. But much bigger,” he finishes with a shrug. 

“You are very descriptive, Torvun,” Entani says, eyes glancing to Ontari briefly before smirking at Clarke. 

“I did not have time to explore it,” Torvun counters gruffly. 

Clarke laughs quietly at the exchange of words, and she finds herself content to follow the easy, quiet chatter the group devolve into. But, despite the easiness of conversation, she feels the slight tension that lives only within her mind, Nia’s presence a warning, Roan’s absence a threat, and the radios in her bag a gamble that she thinks may all be for nothing. But as Ontari once more pushes her horse between Torvun’s and hers, as Ontari once more retorts with her snark, Clarke urges the worries from her mind. At least for now. 

 

* * *

 

The many warriors arrive at Ton DC by what Clarke assumes must be just past midday. It’s a tense moment though, the Trikru now more cautious, now more watchful of the Azgeda this close to a Trikru village. Clarke sees Anya break from the Trikru and turn to face the Azgeda who gather around Nia, the Kwin now looking over the damage to Ton DC that is still slowly being repaired.

“The Commander will call for you soon,” Anya begins, eyes glaring angrily at the nearest Azgeda who grumbles under their breath. “We will rest here until daybreak tomorrow,” and Anya jerks her chin in the direction of the old clearing that the armies of the coalition had used during the wait for the attack on the Mountain. “You may make camp there for the night,” she finishes, hand resting comfortably on the sword at her hip. 

The Azgeda move off carefully, the many more Trikru watching them as they begin moving through the trees towards the clearing. Clarke follows quickly, fingers already beginning to pull out the heavy sleeping furs from a bag tied to her saddle as her horse steps through the last of the trees, Azgeda quickly spreading out into the large clearing. 

And so Clarke dismounts her horse as she joins Ontari in setting up their tent, Entani and Torvun guiding their horses away for the night.

 

* * *

 

“You have been requested to join the meeting, Wanheda,” and Clarke looks up from where she sits to find a woman she vaguely recognises from the time she has spent near Ton DC in the past couple months.

Clarke rises, sends a smile to Ontari and then she begins following the woman, hair braided back, a tattoo on the back of her neck that must dip down her back peeking out from under the leathers.

It doesn’t take them long until they break from the camp and into the trees, the short distance to Ton DC giving her time to consider what will happen in the next few moments. She eyes the woman she follows then, the woman’s gaze careful as she takes in the strength of her face and the angle of her features in the just dimmed light.

“Niylah, right?” 

“Yes,” she answers as she glances over her shoulder. 

And so Clarke shrugs at the lack of reciprocation, the woman clearly anxious to be rid of her company.

They enter the gates to Ton DC to find Azgeda guards standing outside a building, a number of Trikru warriors also facing them, Indra standing out front as she meets their glares with her own. Indra must sense Clarke’s approach though because she turns and enters the building, her hand lifting only slightly for Clarke to follow her. And so Clarke nods at the Azgeda she passes as she ducks inside, eyes squinting just slightly at the drop in ambient light.

It only takes Clarke a moment to register that a number of people stand in the large room, a table separating them into two groups. She finds Nia on the side nearest to her, the Kwin in her greyed furs and Teril standing by her side, three other Azgeda warriors present. On the opposite side stands Lexa, her hand resting easily against the knife on her hip, and by her side stands Anya and Gustus, both warriors flanking her, Anya’s gaze ever angry as she sneers at the Azgeda warriors, Gustus more calm in his demeanour, despite the way his eyes roam from movement to movement. Indra quickly moves to take her place besides Anya, and as the older Trikru village chief moves around the room Clarke finds more Trikru warriors standing in the shadows, hands on swords, warning in their posture. 

And so Clarke finds herself stepping besides Nia, the three other Azgeda warriors standing aside as they make room for her presence. Clarke lets her gaze find Lexa’s then, but as she stares slightly, as she peers into the green eyes, Lexa merely inclines her head once, eyes evenly trained on Nia’s. 

“Why did you not arrive at Ton DC as planned?” Lexa begins, her voice coming out crisp, her gaze hardening in the light.

“I have already informed Anya why,” Nia responds, a small something lingering in her voice. 

“I wish to hear it from you,” is all Lexa says, voice bordering an order.

“Wanheda was visiting her old people,” Nia says after only a small pause. “It would be disrespectful to ignore them.”

And so Lexa lets the silence linger for a long moment, eyes holding Nia’s and Nia’s not quite hiding the mirth within them, the light dancing in her eyes as she meets Lexa’s gaze.

“You travelled with the warriors that are to replace those here at the Mountain?” Lexa begins once more. 

“Yes,” Nia answers, “the warriors already at the Mountain will return to Azgeda, and the ones I have travelled with will take their place. Some will travel to Polis,” Nia finishes.

“Of course,” and Clarke sees Anya grit her teeth just slightly at Lexa’s acceptance of Nia’s actions. 

“I must thank you, Heda,” and Nia’s head tilts ever so slightly as her lip pulls ups into a smile. “You have shown yourself to be considerate in your release of Prince Roan.”

“And how is Prince Roan?” Lexa asks evenly, but Clarke thinks the question almost rhetorical, she thinks she even feels Lexa roll her eyes, if only mentally. 

“His time in captivity was burdensome,” and Nia raises a finger to silence the quiet growl one of her guards lets escape. “As I am sure you would understand,” and at those words Clarke feels Gustus tense, and she thinks she feels the cracking of Anya’s resolve. 

Lexa raises an eyebrow carefully, her gaze unwavering as she stares down Nia for a long while.

“Be prepared to move out at first light,” is all Lexa says before she casts her gaze to the door just once. “You may leave now.”

And so Nia inclines her head just once before she begins moving to the doors, and Clarke follows but not before her eyes meet Lexa’s for just a moment. They step out of the building to come face to face with the Skaikru representatives, Kane standing nervously besides a Trikru warrior who continues to glare at the Azgeda who wait outside. Clarke meets Wells’ gaze briefly, a small smile shared between them both before she follows Nia and the other Azgeda as they begin walking through Ton DC and towards the camp.

 

* * *

 

The walk back to the camp passes slowly, Nia seemingly happy to meander through Ton DC, her chin raised, her eyes peering lazily from face to face, her Azgeda guards flanking her and taking up much of the main street that moves through the village. Nia pauses in her steps though, her eyes peering at the rusted door that locks the prisoners under the depths of Ton DC and that seals them from the fresh air. Clarke sees Nia smirk just once, her gaze moving to a Trikru guard who stands by the door before she turns to meet Clarke’s gaze. 

“The prisoner from the Mountain is there?” and she inclines her head towards the rusted doors.

“Yes, Kwin Nia,” Clarke answers, her thoughts quickly darkening as she senses the direction Nia wishes to take. 

And so it doesn’t surprise Clarke when Nia begins moving towards the doors, the Trikru guard tensing as they approach, his hand falling to the knife on his hip out of habit. 

“Step aside,” Nia says as she comes face to face with the guard, Teril stepping closer as he stares down the equally as large man.

“I am not to allow anyone to enter,” he answers, jaw clenching and his eyes moving to Teril. 

Clarke thinks she senses it moments before it happens. Teril sneers just once, his hand carefully dropping to the knife strapped to his ribs, the guard’s eyes narrow at the motion and Nia merely drops her hands to the furs on her hip too. It’s odd, too, Clarke thinks herself unsure of how to intervene in this moment, but as her eyes take in the three people and as her own body begins to react to the shifting in the air she hears a voice echo out over the quiet. 

And so she turns to find Anya and Indra walking towards them, Anya holding Nia’s gaze as she approaches, Indra’s jaw clenched tightly and her gaze moving from Azgeda to Azgeda. And it isn’t until Anya stops mere paces from her that Clarke realises that Trikru warriors have slowly surrounded the few Azgeda present.

“This prisoner,” and Nia gestures towards the door, “has wronged Azgeda. I wish to question him,” and her voice comes out steady, a small smile finding its way into her eyes. “That is if he can still talk,” she finishes.

Anya glares harshly at Teril until the man drops his hand from the knife at his ribs before she faces Nia once more. 

“You may question him but we will be present,” is all Anya says before the guard begins sliding open the rusted doors, the metal groaning under the motion.

And so Clarke lets a sigh leave her lips as she sends Anya a brief apologetic smile, the Trikru general scoffing at the gesture before they descend down the stairwell. 

More Trikru warriors follow them this time, the numbers beginning to cluster too close together in the enclosed passageways, and Clarke is sure that if violence was to erupt, no one would be able to attack another merely from how cramped she feels. But then they come face to face with Thelonious, the bars to his locked cell the only thing separating him from Nia’s cold gaze.

It’s an odd thing, the next few moments, Nia merely gazes upon Thelonious as he looks back, his gaze moving from person to person before him. Clarke sees him take in the scars over the faces before him, she sees him register the difference in clothing, Azgeda furs heavier, whiter. 

“What do you want?” Thelonious says cautiously, eyes flicking to Clarke’s just once before finding Anya’s, slight recognition dawning on his face. 

Nia steps forward slowly, Teril moving to stand with her only to be stopped by Nia’s hand waving him off. And then Nia stops, the bars of the cell almost touching her cheek as she leans forward, her lips turning into a sneer.

“You are weak,” she begins, “you killed my people,” and she holds his gaze, “you bled my people,” and Clarke thinks she feels the anger of the Azgeda begin to increase, “you turned them into monsters,” and Clarke is sure she feels the Trikru tense and ready themselves for an intervention, “you are lucky, worm,” and Nia brings a hand out from her furs and wraps it around the cold bite of a metal bar “If you were in Azgeda hands you would be tortured, you would be beaten, you would be broken,” and Thelonious comes to his knees as he holds Nia’s gaze, “and I would not let you die,” and Nia meets Anya’s gaze for a long moment. “That is all,” and then Nia turns, her furs rustling as she moves from the cell and towards the open air.

 

* * *

 

It’s late, or perhaps it’s early, but Clarke finds herself lazing in the forests near Ton DC. She thinks the day spent under Nia’s ever constant eye has worn her down, has fatigued her mind. Perhaps even ironically she finds herself unable to embrace sleep now, despite the yawn that escapes her lips and so she sighs, the sounds of the Azgeda war camp now more quiet as the moon shines down from the skies above. 

She knows Torvun will be close, he had walked her into the forests, and he had refused to leave her alone, and it wasn’t until she had agreed to let him remain unseen yet close enough to act should he need to. And so she doesn’t kid herself, she doesn’t let herself really think she has a moment of peace and quiet. But for now she can embrace the facade. And so she lets the back of her head scrape against the bark of a tree, her pelt, panther skull and heavier furs resting by her side and the cold of the night’s air biting into her body.

She thinks of Wells then, hardly a word spoken to him since they had set off from Arkadia, and she knows she will need to set aside time soon, perhaps once they reach Polis. She thinks of Ontari and Entani, both women ever loyal to Azgeda, she thinks of Ontari’s awe at having once more met Nia and she thinks of the role her friends will play in whatever it is that will come to be. 

She thinks herself in a quagmire, in a bog, in a slowly sinking ship that has no bearing. She thinks of Roan with a wan smile, Clarke thinks that perhaps Nia knows that she had not taken control of the Mountain to one day break from the Coalition, that she had not put in place warriors that were loyal to Nia, but to Roan. But she thinks even the Azgeda here are now loyal only to Nia. If only because Nia travels with warriors from the northern villages, who will now replace those here. 

She hears a quiet hoot echo out around her then, and so she sits carefully, her eyes peering out into the trees, the dark of the night hiding detail from her tired eyes. She hears the crunch of a boot against stick then and her hand falls to her thigh, fingers closing around the hilt of her knife. And then she hears a quiet birdcall, she hears it repeated and then she hears the rustling of bushes.

Echo breaks from the undergrowth carefully, slowly, Torvun slipping from his hiding spot not far from Clarke’s side.

“We are alone,” Echo begins, yet her voice remains low. “I scouted,” she finishes, gaze falling to Clarke’s knife. 

“You’re sure?” Clarke answers, perhaps not quite so surprised that Echo has sought her out. 

“Yes,” Echo says, Torvun eyeing her carefully. “Where is Prince Roan?” 

“Not here,” Clarke says, her gaze peering past Echo for a moment as she lowers her voice too. 

“You think him dead?” Echo asks.

“I don’t know,” and Clarke doesn’t, not fully. “Nia’s being too friendly,” Clarke finishes.

“She is,” is all Torvun adds to the conversation. 

“It is a show,” Echo says, “she will want to let you think that all is safe,” and Echo looks away for a moment in thought. 

“What’s her endgame?” and Clarke furrows her brow in thought, her mind trying to play the game, trying to find the moves that await her. “She wants to break from the coalition?” 

“Yes,” and Echo nods to herself once. “She has always wanted to break from the coalition. And now she has two options,” and Echo pins Clarke with a careful look. “If she aids those that fled the Mountain then she can use their tech to her advantage in any fight, we still do not know how many fled, and we do not know what they have,” and Echo breathes in once. “The second is you,” and Clarke feels her skin prickle. 

“You think that’s why she’s being nice?” and Echo shrugs once. “You think she doesn’t care that I didn’t follow her orders?” 

“She has either had Prince Roan killed, and if that has happened then Nia would know of the deal you had made. But perhaps she thinks having Wanheda as an ally outweighs your actions so she courts you even now.”

“Or?” but Clarke thinks she knows the answer.

“Or she lures you into a false sense of security and will soon have you killed.”

“Either way she gains Wanheda’s power,” Torvun adds.

“Some warriors already left to return to Azgeda lands,” Echo says after a moment. “Many will remain at the Mountain and I do not think Nia will let Arkadia go unnoticed if she wishes to control Wanheda,” and Echo peers up into the sky briefly. “She will send warriors to Arkadia, either to protect your old people from those that fled the Mountain, or as a threat that she can attack if you do not cooperate.” 

“And we can’t accuse her of anything unless we have proof,” Clarke sighs quietly, a finger coming to rub at her eye briefly. “I just want to clear things up first. I’m not talking about treason, but we all agree that Azgeda fighting all the other clans is a bad idea, right?” and Clarke looks at Torvun to see him nod slowly. 

“It would not be a wise decision,” Echo says. 

“So how do we stop that from happening?” Clarke asks to both people before her.

“We hope that Prince Roan is still alive,” Torvun says.

“Or we find evidence that Nia has sided with the last of the Mountain Men,” Echo finishes.

And so Clarke sighs heavily, her foot coming to kick at a twig in frustration. 

“I have radios in my bag,” she begins after a moment. “I don’t think I should be seen giving you one,” and Clarke raises an eyebrow. 

“I can steal it,” Echo answers with a smirk. “You wish for me to return to Azgeda? To find Prince Roan?”

“Yes,” and Clarke worries her lip, “or get evidence that he is dead and that Nia was responsible.”

Echo smiles grimly, her thoughts clearly sifting through the priorities she now faces. 

“I can do that,” Echo says with a nod. 

And so Clarke extends her arm as she meets Echo’s gaze, the assassin’s fingers clasping her forearm in return.

“Good luck,” Clarke says.


	8. Chapter 8

It’s quiet, just the barely there breathing of others filling the tent as her fingers rub against the wood of her throne, her mind turning quietly, her thoughts warring within her head as she eyes Anya who stands before her. Gustus sighs once, a hand scratching his cheek briefly before he rolls his shoulders, his back straightening.

Anya grunts out a curse quietly though, the silence stretching too long and so she moves from where she stands, pulls out a chair and brings herself into it roughly, Indra merely raising an eyebrow at the movements from where she stands by the tent’s entrance.

“Nia is nothing more than a curse,” Anya growls out, the day’s frustrations leaving her frayed and ill tempered. 

But Lexa ignores Anya’s words, her gaze turning to Indra. “I wish for you to watch the Azgeda at the Mountain,” she says, Indra bowing her head once. 

“I can station Trikru warriors that have experience fighting Azgeda, Heda,” Indra answers. “You think they will attack?”

“I do not wish to leave it to chance,” Lexa replies. 

“And Arkadia, Heda?” and Indra jerks her chin towards the direction of Skaikru. “The forces there will stretch the number at the Mountain.”

“The other clans at the Mountain will make up for the lack of warriors,” Lexa says in answer. “But I have sent for Tobias and his rangers to come from the south. They will add to Tristan’s rangers already here.”

Indra nods her head in approval, the new rangers a much welcomed bolster of forces, but Lexa’s thoughts turn to the new Azgeda warriors that now camp a birdcall away.

“What is your opinion of the northern Azgeda, Indra?” Lexa asks, her own assumptions, her own experiences filling her mind.

“They are experienced,” Indra says quickly. “They have survived the harshest of Azgeda winters, and you will find them at every battle Azgeda is involved in, no matter where it may take place,” Indra finishes.

“And Nia brings them to the Mountain,” Anya spits.

Lexa ignores Anya’s outburst though, her fingers tracing the worn edge of her armrest before she meets Indra’s gaze once more. “Thank you, Indra,” and Lexa dismisses the general with a raising of her hand. 

Lexa waits until the tent flaps close behind the general, and until Indra’s footfalls fade into the faint murmurs that exist ever present around her tent.

“Speak your mind, Anya,” and it comes out weary and a sigh.

“I do not trust Azgeda. I do not trust Nia. I do not like Wanheda and I do not like this situation,” Anya says, gaze moving to Gustus only once before meeting Lexa’s. 

“You do not like Wanheda?” and Lexa leans forward. “Or you do not like Clarke?” 

“I do not like _Clarke,_ ” and Anya leans forward too.

“You think I am blinded?” 

“No,” and Anya is quick with her words, her thumb tapping her thigh briefly. “But I do not like Nia. What if Clarke is nothing more than a chess piece? What if Clarke uses you? To distract, to weaken?” 

“I do not think Clarke uses me,” Lexa counters evenly, but despite the words that leave her mouth she knows she has already considered the possibilities. 

“Perhaps Clarke does not use you, but what of Nia? You must know that Nia would consider all options.” 

“You think Nia allows Clarke to remain to weaken me?” and Lexa looks away for a moment, her gaze falling onto Gustus who stands ever quietly by her side. “No one knows,” Lexa finishes quietly. 

Anya stands though, her steps come carefully as she approaches. 

“No one should have known of Costia,” Anya says, her gaze darkening, and Lexa thinks she sees a guilt live in Anya’s mind. “But it was known,” and Anya’s fists clench tightly, and Lexa is sure memories of Anya’s time with Echo must linger in her former mentors mind. 

“It was not your fault,” Lexa says, but she thinks the words only half a truth. 

“It was,” is all Anya replies with.

“I do not think Clarke uses you, Heda,” Gustus says in the silence. 

“You do not?” and Lexa looks up at the large man.

“She speaks ill of Nia and I have never heard an Azgeda speak ill of her before.”

“You think her more loyal to the clan than to Nia?” Anya asks.

“I do,” Gustus says. “All she has done would suggest that,” and Gustus steps forward so that he now stands besides Anya. “All she has done has provided Azgeda with options, with opportunities, she has not taken action to weaken Azgeda, but her actions could weaken Nia.”

“We still do not know why Nia has come with these forces,” Anya says.

“I believe she wishes to see things for herself,” Lexa answers. “Clarke is special—” and Anya’s eyes roll, “— controlling Wanheda is the key to whatever game Nia plays.”

“And she is the key to what?” Anya pushes. “Skaikru loyalty? Most clans did not know of Skaikru until after you had ensured they were not a threat.”

“Perhaps Nia wishes to use the knowledge that you kept them hidden to destabilise the Coalition, Heda,” Gustus says.

“That is why Skaikru travel to polis with us now. They will prove their worth to the coalition,” Lexa answers. She falls quiet once more though, her mind quickly sifting through the things she knows of Nia, the actions Nia has taken and the warriors that move across borders currently, vast numbers all under the guise of protection. “I can not remove Nia from power without destabilising all of Azgeda,” Lexa begins once more, “the only person to do that would be Roan or Clarke,” and Lexa grimaces briefly at Roan’s name.

“But we have not heard from Roan,” Anya says. 

“We have not,” Lexa continues. “Nia must know that Clarke did not follow her orders.”

“So that is why she has come to Arkadia? To threaten?”

“It would make sense to have warriors near enough to Arkadia to strike if Wanheda was to disobey orders,” Gustus adds.

“But what excuse will she give the clans?” and Anya glowers even harder, “they will not tolerate such large numbers of Azgeda warriors outside their borders.”

“I am almost certain Nia has sided with those that fled the Mountain,” and Lexa nods to herself before continuing, “she will argue that her warriors are at Arkadia to help protect should the last of the Mountain Men attack.” 

“But what does she wish to achieve?” Anya continues.

“What she has always wished to achieve,” Lexa says, “to remove me from the throne and to destroy the coalition.” 

“You think she will challenge you even now? After the defeat of the Mountain?” Anya says.

“She would not be doing the things she does now unless she believes she has an advantage,” and Lexa reclines in her throne once more, thoughts carefully taking shape within her mind. “She has an advantage,” and Lexa nods to herself just once. “She has the aid of those that fled the Mountain, and Nia believes she controls Azgeda and the power of Wanheda.”

“But you trust Clarke?” 

“I do,” and Lexa’s brows furrow briefly. “Nia will threaten Clarke somehow, perhaps by holding Arkadia hostage—”

“Our warriors at Arkadia will protect Skaikru,” Gustus adds.

“—Yes, but we can not know how much damage Nia could cause with Mountain Tech.”

“But what of you, Lexa?” Anya says. 

“Nia will challenge me to the throne,” Lexa says, conviction finding its way into her voice. “She will do it to obscure her other moves.”

“To destabilise the Coalition?” Gustus asks.

“And gain the power of the Mountain and its tech,” and Anya nods to herself, lips grimacing slightly. “With the Mountain’s power Nia could sway the outcome of any conflict between Azgeda and the other clans.”

“If Nia challenges you, Heda, then Teril would fight for her,” Gustus says, thoughts clearly turning to the Azgeda guard who accompanies Nia and the fight that looms over their shoulders. 

“What of her other guards? Ones who are older, more experienced?” Anya counters.

“I do not believe they would be the ones fighting,” Gustus says gruffly. “Teril is old enough to have fought during the Coalition’s forming, but young enough so as not to have spent more time guarding than fighting. He would be experienced enough to counter any clan’s style of combat.” 

“Teril will be the one I will—”

“—I will fight in your stead, Heda,” Gustus cuts in.

“—No,” and Lexa pins Gustus with a stern look. “I am the Commander. No one fights for me,” and she sees Gustus clench his jaw tightly, “When Nia issues the challenge she will have swayed enough of the other clans. I must meet her challenge,” she finishes.

“Then what can we do?” and Anya looks to Gustus for a moment in question merely to look back to Lexa after Gustus gives nothing, his fingers simply gripping his knife fiercely.

And so Lexa takes a steadying breath, her chest aching slightly at the words she knows she must voice. 

“We must convince Clarke to challenge Nia to the throne.”

 

* * *

 

Daybreak comes quickly. The sound of a horn echoes out over the camp and Clarke’s eyes open with a yawn upon her lips. Ontari sits ruefully, her hand rubbing at her eyes and her hair messed and knotted. Entani wakes just a touch more slowly, the woman whimpering to the cold of the air as Ontari jerks the furs from them with a tired smile as she swings her legs over the side of the bed. 

“There’s baths in Polis, right?” Clarke asks as she sits, fingers tugging through her hair briefly.

“We will find out,” Ontari answers as she stands, her back stretching and her arms reaching up to brush against the low hanging tent furs overhead. 

Ontari pads her way over to the small table in the corner of their tent, her skin prickling to the cold, her toes wriggling into the furs underfoot as she begins sorting through the furs and leathers that each woman wears. Clarke watches her for a moment longer, her gaze carefully eyeing the soreness to Ontari’s shoulder, to the reddened flesh and the scarring from the bullet’s exit wound. But as Ontari raises her arm up, as she rolls her shoulder and as she begins separating the furs with her free hand, Clarke thinks Ontari will be fine. 

Entani rises then, fingers pulling her sleep clothes off roughly as she treads her way to Ontari, the other woman handing the healer furs already. Clarke follows suit, her own clothes passed to her as she begins to dress quickly, the early morning routine now thoughtless and easy to fall into. 

Ontari strips her chest binding, the morning light curving over her chest as she slides a small sheathed dagger into place before tying on a fresh binding, hands settling the foreign object. Clarke finds herself following the actions too, fingers automatically placing her own small dagger into place as she eyes Entani bringing a hairbrush through her hair quickly. 

Clarke’s undershirt comes next, then her heavier leathers and then finally her furs, the familiar weight settling over her shoulders as she sits on the edge of the bed, Ontari’s fingers quickly working the blonde of her hair into braids, Clarke’s own fingers finishing the final knots in Entani’s hair before the healer rises, already moving behind Ontari. 

It doesn’t take the three women long to finish, perhaps not even ten minutes, and as Clarke bends down, fingers snagging the straps of her bag, she runs a hand over the small pocket on its side to find only two hard objects remain, Echo having taken a radio in the time between their meeting and her waking. And so Clarke exits the tent, bag over her shoulder and furs and leathers bundled in her arms as Ontari begins packing their small table and supplies. Torvun stands to greet them with a nod before he begins helping Entani take down their small tent.

And so Clarke looks out over the camp to find many already moving about, some taking down tents, others packing carts full of supplies and others guiding and readying horses for theirs journeys to the Mountain, to Polis or perhaps even back to Arkadia. 

 

* * *

 

To Clarke’s dismay she finds out the trip to Polis will take the entire day, even edging into the night, and so she finds herself riding atop her horse, eyes slowly counting the many Trikru warriors that ride with them, that flank the Azgeda party as they move along the beaten path that winds through the trees. Nia rides at the forefront of the Azgeda forces, her guards following close behind her, their gazes ever careful of those that follow. Clarke lets her gaze wander to Teril though, and she eyes the scar that peeks out of the collar of his furs and begins to race up his throat. He must sense her gaze though, because his head turns and his eyes land on hers quickly, and as they share a glance Clarke thinks she sees a quiet mirth, a humour only for him to understand, that lives within his eyes. And so she nods her head once before turning her attention elsewhere, Entani and Torvun’s conversation slowly drifting through her mind. 

“—not saying we should do it,” and Torvun’s eyebrows furrow carefully as Entani continues voicing her thoughts, “but I think Lake Clan could be conquered within a season if all of Azgeda attacked.”

“Lake Clan would not even be a challenge,” Ontari adds, an Azgeda warriors who rides close by laughing quietly at her words. 

“And how would you invade them so it would not be a challenge?” Entani asks.

“Wait until winter,” Ontari says. “When their lakes are frozen we attack. They share our border so we wait until their lands are as close to Azgeda climate then we win,” she finishes.

“You make it sound easy,” Clarke adds.

“We would have defeated them if the Coalition did not happen,” Ontari scoffs.

“But it did,” Torvun says. 

“If you think Lake Clan is so easy to conquer then how would you take Rock Line?” Entani questions, head now cocked to the side as she considers her own question.

And so Ontari begins outlining her thoughts, the intricacies and plans she voices perhaps worryingly illuminating just how much thought she has put into conquering the neighbouring clans. But Clarke finds a smile spreading across her lips as she listens to Entani’s exasperation at one of Ontari’s far too violent plans of taking the Rock Line’s capital, even Torvun seems perplexed for a moment as Ontari merely shrugs once before her thoughts shift to a different strategy.

Clarke looks around then, her thoughts lazing through her mind, but she feels the quiet prickle and she senses the gaze trained on her and so she shifts in her saddle to find Wells looking at her awkwardly, a smile spreading across his lips as their eyes meet. Clarke only looks once at Ontari who follows her gaze to Wells before Clarke guides her horse back towards Wells and the other Skaikru, a number of Azgeda shifting around her horse as she comes to ride amongst the few Skaikru taking the journey to Polis. 

“Hi,” Clarke waves awkwardly to Wells before smiling briefly at Raven. “You can ride a horse,” and Clarke finds herself unsure of what else to say in this moment. 

“Yeah,” and Wells shrugs once, “not very well, but we’re on the ground now. We have to adapt.”

Clarke nods at his words, a smile of her own beginning to spread as she recalls times past when they had been children, when they had dreamt of what the ground would be like. 

“It’s nothing like we’d imagined, is it,” and she finds Wells smiling at her words, but she thinks the smile just a little less happy than her mind remembers.

“No, it isn’t” Wells answers.

“Why’d you not say anything?” and Clarke finds herself cutting through the awkward that lingers with the bluntness of her words. “Why? After all this time?” 

“I already told you,” Wells says, eyes snapping to the ground just once as his horse lurches slightly. 

“You were going to let me hate you forever?” 

“It was complicated,” and Wells worries his lip, brows furrowing. 

“We’ve got time,” Clarke challenges. 

“Things are different,” he says, “more than it should be,” he counters at the way Clarke’s eyes roll. 

“How?”

“If you’d never been sent down first, if you’d stayed with us at Arkadia maybe I would have told you one day,” and he shrugs. “But you didn’t, you found a place, a people. I thought it’d be easier if things just drifted apart,” and he gazes at her cautiously.

“Drifted apart?” and Clarke thinks a gentle scowl forms on her face. “You’d give up our friendship? You’d let things just fizzle out?” but as the last of her words leave her she thinks she already knows his answer.

“They already had,” Wells said. “You hated me, but at least you still had Abby.”

“You’re an idiot,” Clarke finds herself saying, but she knows her words don’t come out biting when she finds a smile spreading across his face once more. 

“Yeah,” and Wells shrugs. “I guess I am,” and he sighs, “it’s because things are so different, are too different, isn’t it?” and he gestures around them both. “The grounders, the clans, the Mountain. It puts things into perspective,” and Clarke thinks she knows Wells talks of Thelonious who remains imprisoned at Ton DC. 

“It does,” Clarke agrees. And she knows it does. After the things she’s done, the things she is sure she will continue to do. What seems like senseless childhood grudges seem petty. “I was petty,” and she finds herself worrying the strap of her fathers watch.

“You weren’t,” Wells counters. “You lost Jake. You had every right to hold onto the only parent you had left.”

“Even if it meant hating an innocent man?” Clarke says.

“What are friends for?” 

And so Clarke finds her horse moving closer to Wells’ and she finds her hand reaching out to squeeze his once as their eyes meet. 

“Thank you,” she says.

“You’re welcome, Clarke,” Wells answers. 

 

* * *

 

There’s a bite to the air that Clarke finds herself embracing. Her feet strum across the forest floor, the furs of her boots dulling the crunch of leaves and sticks underfoot. Her gaze moves to the left, the rustle of a bush catching her eye and so she changes course, gaze glimpsing the splash of red that bread crumbs the trail for her. She feels Ontari spring forward too, the woman’s hand snapping to the left as an Azgeda warrior peels off. And so Clarke slows her steps, Ontari coming to a rest by her side.

“We have it cornered,” is all Ontari says as she meets Raven’s gaze, the mechanic’s breaths coming out frantic and pained. 

“How—” and Raven gulps largely, “how are you guys not out of breath,” and she winces as a hand clutches at her ribs. 

“We are not weak,” Ontari answers simply, ignoring Raven’s snort. 

“Just get out of the way if it decides to charge, ok?” and Clarke eyes the breathless mess Raven has become in the short run after the deer. 

“You got it,” and Raven coughs once, Ontari winces as the sound carries out into the forest around them.

“Be quiet,” Ontari hisses as she clamps a hand over Raven’s mouth. 

“I got it,” Raven growls out as she begins pulling away Ontari’s fingers, a glare on her face. 

“Behave,” Clarke whispers, her eyes snapping to movement not far from them, her own hands pulling both women apart. 

“Why have you even come?” Ontari snaps quietly to Raven.

“Why are you such a bitch?” Raven counters, her thumb brushing over the bow held awkwardly in her hands. 

And so Clarke sighs and her eyes roll, and she is sure this hunting trip will end in them returning empty handed. A hoot echoes out quietly though, Ontari’s head snapping up at the sound as she draws her bow, eyes peering out into the bushes. And then there’s a blast of commotion. Ontari lets out a yell, Clarke’s eyes widen and Raven releases a yelp of surprise. 

The stag bursts from the undergrowth, its horns levelled at Ontari as it charges, the wounded beast desperate and violent. Ontari dives to the ground, her arrow glancing off the stag’s shoulder, leaving behind a jagged gash. Clarke curses out too, her own arrow only just finding flesh. The other hunter calls out a warning before a third arrow finds its mark in the stag’s side. 

But its momentum carries it forward, Raven’s eyes widen for only a moment and then Clarke dives for her, hands grasping for the mechanic as she drags her out of the way just in time before the beast crashes into the ground where the three women had been just moments ago. 

Clarke struggles to her feet, gaze meeting the other hunter’s worried look for only a moment before she turns to Raven who lies sprawled out on the ground, a small smile on her face.

“Yeah,” and Raven sits up, “I’m not going hunting with you again.”

And Clarke laughs as she helps Raven up, the mechanic patting herself off as she eyes the broken branches and trampled bushes.

“I swear animals are bigger now than they were,” Raven says. 

“You’ve never seen what they were like before,” Clarke laughs as she bends to pick her bow up. 

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I do,” and Clarke eyes the now dead deer, blood already pooling out around the arrow that sticks out its side. “Where’s Ontari?” and Clarke looks around only to find the other Azgeda hunter shrugging. 

But Clarke’s eyes find movement, they snap to the deer and she finds it moving barely. And Clarke’s eyes widen for a fraction of a moment before she curses and runs forward. Her hands tug at the animal’s antlers desperately, its weight crushing Ontari who lies underneath it.

“Get this thing off me,” Ontari growls, her face contorting as the weight shifts on her chest, her nose bloodied and her arms trapped by her side.

Raven curses as she scrambles on hands and feet towards Ontari, the other hunter dropping down by Clarke’s side as they all begin pulling the dead beast off Ontari. Clarke thinks it only takes them a few strained seconds, but she is sure it must feel a lifetime for Ontari. As soon as the weight lifts from her chest Ontari breathes in deeply only to splutter and curse as she pulls herself free, a hand wiping the blood from her mouth before she spits out a mouthful of it.

“Shit man, are you ok?” Raven asks, eyes still wide as she takes in Ontari’s ruffled state. 

“I am fine,” Ontari hisses once more before she comes to her feet shakily. 

Clarke steadies Ontari, hand gripping the wounded woman’s shoulder as she wobbles slightly, hand clutching her ribs and a scowl on her face. 

“Let—”

“They are not broken,” Ontari cuts Clarke off, hand still resting on her ribs.

“You’re sure?” Clarke asks, worry furrowing her brow.

“Yes,” Ontari shrugs slightly before she bends and picks up the bow she dropped. Ontari stands back up quickly, a sharp glare sent to Raven who holds her hands up, palm forward as Ontari begins moving back in the direction of the warriors that travel to Polis.

“I guess we’re the ones carrying this?” Raven says in the silence, her foot coming to scuff at one of the large legs of the beast. 

“Yeah, I guess so,” and Clarke nods to the other hunter as they both begin binding the animal’s legs in preparation for the heavy journey back.

 

* * *

 

“Do you always hunt for food?” Raven asks from where she walks besides Clarke.

“Yeah,” Clarke shrugs awkwardly under the weight of the deer, one end of a branch threaded through the deer’s legs resting upon her shoulders.

“You don’t farm?” Raven says, her head cocking to the side.

“No,” and Clarke takes a moment to think. “Azgeda fish, and we hunt and there’s roots we eat,” she says. “But if you’re thinking of crops and farm animals and stuff then no, Azgeda doesn’t do that.”

“But other clans do, I’m guessing?” and Raven gestures around them. “Trikru farm I’m pretty sure.”

“Their climate’s better suited to it, yeah,” Clarke answers. 

“We do not need warmer winds to survive,” the hunter who walks with them says, her voice lilting off the wind as they walk quietly, the faint sounds of Ontari’s rough steps reaching their ears from further ahead. 

“Clearly,” Raven says, eyes rolling. 

“You’re from the north?” Clarke says over her shoulder as she meets the other hunter’s gaze .

“Yes,” she answers, “from Cambri,” and she huffs a string of hair from her eyes, the red brown of it tickling her nose as they walk. “I am Jenma,” she says after a moment. And Clarke smiles, and she is sure Jenma sees the lifting of her cheeks by the quiet huff of breath that the redheaded huntress lets loose. “You should try the Northern hunts,” Jenma says after a moment though, and Clarke is sure she eyes the dark pelt and the skull behind her head. 

“I’ve been told they are a worthy challenge,” and Clarke laughs quietly, the terse conversation had with Teril coming to mind. 

“All who wish to prove themselves in pain and suffering would attempt them,” Jenma says seriously, “Prince Roan of Azgeda suffered them, Kwin Nia suffered them. You should suffer them, too, Wanheda.” 

“You guys are super into suffering,” Raven cuts in, her gaze clearly travelling over the scars that adorn Clarke’s face before landing on Jenma’s own. Clarke finds herself taking a moment to take in Jenma’s scars too, and she finds them similar to Teril’s, arcs slashed from her temples to behind her ears. And she thinks the scars fitting, she thinks they suit the woman’s round face, and accent the strength of her cheekbones.

“All Azgeda know suffering, sky girl—”

“— it’s Raven.”

“it is our birthright to conquer it,” Jenma finishes with a shrug. 

“The northern Azgeda live in harsher environments, even by Azgeda standards, Raven,” Clarke says in elaboration. “Where’s Teril from?” Clarke adds, curiosity piquing. “Cambri, too?” 

“No,” and Jenma looks up for a moment in thought. “From Tehorse,” and she sighs before hefting the deer further up onto her shoulders. “He comes from Tehorse, it is where all who attempt the Northern Hunts begin their travels,” and she smiles firmly as a memory takes hold. “I was there when Prince Roan attempted his,” and she laughs quietly, the green of her eyes sparkling happily in the sunlight. “He did not return for many nights. But when he returned he came back victorious.”

“Someone’s smitten,” Raven laughs, thumbs hooked into the straps of the ever constant bag on her back. 

And so Jenma merely shrugs once more. 

“He is Prince Roan.” 

 

* * *

 

Clarke finds herself riding at the forefront of the Azgeda forces, Torvun by her side, Entani and Ontari riding behind them. She doesn’t notice it at first, but the trees this far from Ton DC change, they shift ever so slightly, the trees barely a shade lighter, the trunks just slightly thinner than in the heart of Trikru lands. Clarke looks up into the sky for a moment, the drifting of clouds chasing the setting sun as it bleeds orange through the sky. She peers behind her briefly, her eyes quickly counting the Azgeda warriors who ride with her, their numbers swarmed by Trikru on either side.

She turns back to the front of the large war party, her gaze falling on Nia’s back who rides just in front of her, Teril and the other guards close by her side. Clarke’s gaze then moves to Lexa further in the distance, the red of her sash glowing in the warmth of the sun’s light. 

The horses come to a pause though, the large convoy of warriors slowing their steps as they near a thinning of trees. A warrior by Lexa’s side brings a horn to his lips, the sound echoing out around them. It lasts for a long moment before ending, its sound reverberating off the trees that huddle together. And there’s a pause, enough time for the chatter of birds to calm and the neighing of horses to weaken, but a response comes, a long echo and a deep rumble that shakes her bones. 

“Polis responds,” Torvun says quietly as Clarke’s eyes peer out through the trees. “It is not wise to ride on the capital with such large warriors unannounced, even if you are expected.”

And so the warriors begin moving forward slowly at the raising of Lexa’s hand, Gustus and Anya flanking her as the large warhorse she rides atop takes her forward. Clarke even feels it in the air too, the Trikru around them watch the Azgeda more carefully, the proximity to the capital of all the clans bringing a tension to the air.

The trees begin to thin slowly, the spaces between them expanding, the ground beneath her hardening, and the leaves and sticks and branches that litter the ground lessening until all that remains is the firm packed dirt that Clarke thinks not quite pavement, not quite worn stone, but somewhere between that and the looseness of the forest ground. 

She doesn’t notice it at first, but as they continue along quietly she finds that the birdsong is met by the quiet lilting of noise on the air. She thinks she hears the occasional voice that breaks through the quiet breeze, she thinks she hears the subtle clanging of steel on steel, and she knows she hears the sounds of life as the trees finally part for her. 

And it’s an awed expression she is sure, it’s something she had never quite thought she’d see again, or ever. 

The trees end abruptly and the land dips below her gaze and into a valley. To the left rises mountains covered in the grand trees she is used to. the mountains fade into the distance, rolling into the clouds overhead. She sees the flashes of blue as the sun touches water’s surface to illuminate the lakes and rivers that wind and thread their way through the valley. In the distance she thinks she even sees the quietly snowcapped peaks of mountains, ones that bring a longing of ice and snow to her mind. But what steals her attention the most in the valley is Polis. Buildings, large and small spread out, she can even see the winding trails of streets and roads and pathways that wind through the buildings, some she sees are built of wood, some of stone, metal and cloth and furs. 

But what brings her attention into focus the most is Polis tower. It sits in the centre of the sprawling city, its shadow cutting a swath of dark over a sliver of the cities dwellings. It must rise many, many stories into the sky, the sun cutting into it and setting the stone ablaze with the riches of oranges and reds and yellows that bleed through the cracks of a facade that has weathered the fierceness that is the ground. 

Clarke eyes it for a long moment, and she finds pieces missing, some cracks opening into large spaces, jagged edges and broken stone and metal. But she sees it stand firm, she sees the flickering of flames in windows, and she sees the flame that burns at the very top of the tower, and she is sure it must be fierce in its intensity, she thinks it must warm the city on the coldest nights if only because she feels it, even now, if only in its brightness. 

The warriors begin the march forward though, their horses beginning to follow a large trail that winds its way down into the valley, that disappears back into the trees and that will lead them to the gates of Polis. There’s a stiffness to Nia now, her back straightens and her shoulders square, her gaze hardens too, it flickers over the trees, it meets the occasional glare of a Trikru warrior and it smirks as they move ever closer to Polis. 

It only takes them a few long moments before they near Polis, the tower looming overhead, even in the distance. They pass people now, from all the clans, she recognises the reds and browns of Rock Line, the blues of the Lake People and the muted ochre of Desert clan. The people they pass make way for the many warriors, their gazes awed as they look up as Lexa passes, her own body tense, her gaze hardened, but Clarke thinks she feels the glint of content that hides beneath the mask Lexa so often wears. 

The sounds of life reach her ears more clearly now, and she can hear the chatter of a market, even at this late an hour, when the sun begins its descent. But the gates of Polis break into her vision as the trees fade from around her. Clarke spares one last look behind her and she peers at the warriors who ride quietly, some who gaze up at Polis tower in their first visit to the capital, some more familiar with its scale merely sparing it one quick glance. 

“It is big,” Entani whispers quietly, her gaze trailing over the tower. 

“It is ugly,” Ontari says in turn. “It is not even complete,” and Clarke is sure Ontari eyes the crumbling facade that somehow remains firm. 

“It is strong,” Torvun says. “It has served all commanders, past and present and will serve future commanders.”  

They ride through the gates, and Clarke finds even greater numbers of warriors milling about at what she thinks must be the main entrance to Polis. But she finds these warriors to be a mix of clans, of Rock Line, of Trikru, Glowing Forest, Broadleaf and the others.

“How many people live here?” Clarke whispers, eyes following a number of archers, hands on their bows as they eye the Azgeda forces.

“Many times more than at our capital,” Torvun says in answer. “All people are welcome, but each clan must have no more than a thousand warriors within the capital at any given time.”

“They don’t seem too happy about Azgeda,” Clarke whispers, her gaze meeting the scorn of a Lake Clan warrior. 

“Azgeda will have almost a thousand within the capital now,” Torvun says easily. “It is not often that a clan brings all that they are allowed.” 

“So they watch us and expect us to not take offence?” Ontari sneers as she passes a warrior, their leathers greens and soft yellows. 

“Yes,” Torvun says simply, his past experience of visiting the capital tempering his unease. 

The many warriors come to a stop in a large city square, on one end lies the mouth to Polis tower, the other sides boxed by buildings, some large, some small, all showing signs of life and clan allegiances.

“The Azgeda forces may take their place in their sector,” Lexa calls out, her voice carrying over the many warriors. “Honoured guests will be given quarters in Polis tower,” Lexa finishes.

And so Clarke dismounts with the other Azgeda, and warriors begin directing their horses away, some to what Clarke assumes to be the stables, others in the direction of a clearing on the outskirts of Polis that Clarke had spied on their approach from the ridgeline of the valley.

“I guess we’re this way?” Clarke gestures awkwardly, her gaze following the many warriors who begin moving away from the tower. 

“Clarke,” and she feels herself stiffen just slightly as she turns. “Wanheda is an honoured guest. You will be given quarters in Polis,” Nia smiles warmly from where she stands not far from Clarke. 

And so Clarke sends an apologetic look to Entani and Ontari, both women looking awkwardly at her as she walks behind Nia and her guards. Torvun closes in on Clarke though, his shadow joining hers for only a moment before they step under the shadow cast by Polis. 

Clarke finds Lexa standing by the entrance to the tower, and it’s an arch that looms overhead, furs and cloths draping down, each one carrying the sigil of the twelve clans. More warriors stand guard too, but Clarke finds these ones to share in the lack of distinctiveness of colours. 

“Polis guards must surrender allegiance to their birth clan,” Torvun whispers before falling quiet as Lexa casts her gaze over the few Azgeda that stand before her and the Skaikru who stand awkwardly near Anya. 

“Kwin Nia will be shown to her usual quarters,” Lexa calls out, her gaze meeting Nia’s only briefly as the Kwin bows her head. “Your guards may find their quarters amongst the ambassadors and their guards,” and Nia smiles warmly, her gaze flickering over the guards by her side before settling on Teril who peers cautiously around them. “Wanheda will be given her own quarters.” And Nia’s gaze snaps back to Lexa’s for only a moment before finding a space somewhere past her, but Clarke thinks Lexa senses the shift in Nia’s posture. “Wanheda is an honoured guest, Kwin Nia,” and Lexa inclines her head evenly. “She will be given the same respect as any other leader of a clan as her status demands.”

“Of course,” Nia says, already beginning a familiar walk past Lexa, her guards still close by her side as she disappears into the depths of the tower. 

And so Lexa watches Nia’s retreating back, her gaze hard as she follows the Kwin’s furs that swish with her movements before a bend in a hallway steals her away. 

“Skaikru, you have been given quarters,” and Lexa gestures to a servant, a woman who bows her head briefly as she steps forward, eyes counting the few Skaikru present.

And so the Skaikru follow the woman, and Clarke finds herself standing in the entrance to the tower, the fires that burn in sconces nearby bringing flickering shadows around her, the warmth of the furs and tapestries that hang overhead warming her thoughts and catching her eye, the sigils of the clans all glowing distinctly in the light. 

“Come, Clarke,” Lexa says then, her gaze shifting to Torvun’s for only a moment, and Clarke realises that they stand surrounded by Trikru and other guards, Anya and Gustus ever present, the other Trikru more apprehensive in Wanheda’s presence. 

Clarke falls into step behind Lexa as Anya and Gustus follow closely as Torvun shadows Clarke’s movements. Guards that Lexa passes bow their heads quietly, servants press their backs to walls as Lexa passes and words of _Heda_ fall from murmured lips. 

It’s quiet now, there’s noise to the air, footsteps echo around her, but Clarke feels the prickling of her skin and the proximity of others. They come to a set of doors though, the wooden frame old, scratched and worn. Lexa pauses, hand reaching out to pull on a lever that extends from the side of the wall.

Clarke’s brows furrow, uncertainty taking her thoughts as the five of them stand awkwardly in front of the doors. But Clarke’s ears pick up the creaking and the groaning. And it must last a while, for long enough that her eyes peer around her briefly, and her lips begin to part, her thoughts begin to voice themselves, but the groaning stops, Lexa’s hand reaches out and the doors slide open to reveal a small room. 

And it takes Clarke a moment to register what it is, her eyebrows furrow once more as Lexa steps inside, followed by Anya and Gustus. But then Clarke lets a quiet laugh leave her lips as she too steps into the small space.

“I guess this explains how you get up and down the tower,” Clarke says quietly, a person’s breath brushing against the back of her neck, Torvun and Gustus both taking up much of the enclosed space. 

“There are stairs, Clarke,” Lexa says evenly. “We use them when it breaks down,” and she gestures around her.

“It doesn’t break down often, though?” and Clarke looks over her shoulder to find Lexa standing close. “Right?”

“There has not been a death in two seasons,” Lexa replies, her lips twitching up just slightly as Clarke’s eyes widen and as she grips Torvun’s arm in support. 

Anya scoffs once though, and Clarke is sure she hears the woman mutter curses under her breath. But then the elevator comes to a pause, the doors slide open and Anya steps out with a relieved sigh. 

“I will see you soon, Heda,” Anya calls over her shoulder as she begins moving through a brightly lit hallway.

“This level is for Trikru quarters,” Lexa says in the quiet, the doors sliding shut with a thud as the elevator once more begins its ascent. 

“Where am I staying?” Clarke questions. 

“Near the topmost levels,” Lexa says. “You are an honoured guest so you will be given quarters suitable for your standing, Clarke.”

“Oh, well,” and Clarke finds herself trailing off, unsure of how to respond exactly. “Thanks,” she gives to the silence.

“You are welcome, Clarke.”

They fall into a tense silence then, the sounds of creaking ropes all Clarke can focus on. But the sounds cut off abruptly, the small space giving a slight lurch as the upwards motion ceases.

“Follow me,” Lexa says as she slides the doors open and steps out into another brightly lit hallway. 

Clarke peers down the other end to find guards standing by doors, their gazes meeting hers for a moment as recognition dawns on their faces, her scars showing her as Azgeda, her presence by Lexa’s side marking her as Wanheda. But she turns back to Lexa’s swaying coat, and she follows her down the hallway until they come to another set of doors. These ones are heavy, the wood carved and etched into, images depicting battles, victories and defeats that sprawl across the richness of its colour.

“Your quarters, Clarke,” Lexa says, her gaze meeting Gustus’ for a moment as he steps aside, his back coming to rest against the wall by the door. And so Clarke squeezes Torvun’s arm briefly, his own back coming to face the wall as he takes position besides Gustus. 

And then Lexa opens the doors and both women step inside.


	9. Chapter 9

The doors close with a thud, the deepness of it filling the large room Clarke finds herself now standing inside. She hears Lexa move behind her carefully until she sees the brunette come to a quiet step besides her. But despite the other woman’s presence, Clarke can’t help but to stare at what she sees. Latticeworks of wood carvings line the far wall to her right, it spans the length of a wall draped in furs and pelts before it bends at the room’s corner to stand before what Clarke thinks must be an open balcony or window, the sun’s light shearing into the room with the intensity and warmth of a tired day. Candles in sconces hang from the ceiling, some dot the edges of the room, some hang high. Clarke begins to move around the room carefully, her fingers trailing over the edge of a large, worn wooden table, the depth of its hue enriching. She peers through the latticework as she comes besides it to find Polis stretching out below her, buildings fading into the distance, torches slowly being lit catching her gaze as their flames prickle her sight. 

Her eyes fall onto a low couch, its length enough for her to sleep on and its colour more muted, less forest, she eyes the smaller table by its side, this one she thinks for decoration as much as for utility. Her gaze lands on the bed though, the furs atop it lush, the size of it far larger than she remembers ever having on the Ark, and far larger than what she has had in Ronto and in the last few months at the Mountain. 

Clarke turns carefully to Lexa, the other woman still standing by the door, her own gaze following Clarke in her searching ministrations. 

“Do you live like this when you aren’t travelling?” Clarke asks quietly, fingers brushing against the furs draped over the bed, a crimson red and a blinding white mixing together in a lazy dance. 

“Yes,” Lexa answers evenly, her shoulder lifting ever so slightly. “The Commander’s quarters are at the other end of this level,” and she gestures behind her with a lifting of a finger. 

“I’ve never had anything like this,” Clarke says, “on the Ark everything was rationed, everyone shared. We’d even cut mattresses in half for children,” and she pauses to find herself staring at the edge of the bed. “The Mountain doesn’t even have stuff like this.”

“You are on the ground now, Clarke,” and Lexa’s eyes soften only a bit, and Clarke thinks the woman’s gaze lingers over her face for a long moment. “Do not feel guilty at what you have earned."

“It’s not guilt,” Clarke says. “It’s just—” she bites her lip once, thoughts turning uneasy. “It’s just that the ground’s not like I thought it would be,” she finishes lamely. 

Lexa nods just once, her hands now clasped behind her back as she approaches carefully. Clarke follows the motion with her eyes, her own hands coming to tug at the furs and pelt draped over her shoulder, and a sigh escapes her lips as the weight lifts and as she feels them slip to the ground. She breathes in deeply then, the past few days having wearied her mind and so she finds herself reclining on the bed, fingers carding through the soft furs she can feel

“I will leave you, Clarke,” Lexa begins quietly, “you are tired. The ambassadors will wai—”

“—Wait,” and Clarke lifts her head from the bed. “Can you stay? Just for a bit?” 

“Only for a moment,” and Lexa looks at the door.

“I know we should be careful,” Clarke smiles quietly, thoughts turning to the guards she had seen at what she thinks must be Lexa’s quarters.

“They will not speak of what they see,” Lexa says, her mind having read Clarke’s thoughts. “But I wish not to risk anything with Nia so close.”

“I understand,” Clarke says quietly as she watches Lexa sit on the edge of the bed. “We aren’t going to get a break are we?” and she sits up as the words leave her lips, a hand rubbing across her face for a moment. 

“The Commander is not afforded the luxury of a break, Clarke,” Lexa answers, eyes following Clarke’s hand as it rubs ruefully across her eyes. 

“Does the Commander often refer to herself in third person?”

“Only for special occasions,” and Lexa smiles slightly, her cheek twitching for a moment. 

“I see,” and Clarke finds herself bumping Lexa’s shoulder with her own, both women now sitting on the edge of the bed.

They fall into a quiet then, Clarke’s eyes happy to drift over the room, over the parchment she spies on the table, she eyes the wax that dries and drips from candles, and she eyes the intricacies of the latticework that casts shadows and warmth through the room.

“Nia will begin to turn the ambassadors against the Coalition,” Lexa says quietly, mournfully. 

“She can do that?” Clarke says, her gaze peering at Lexa’s profile for a long moment. 

“She will have plans to do so,” and Lexa turns to face her. 

“What are you going to do?”

“For now nothing,” and Lexa smirks quietly as Clarke’s eyes roll. 

“You’ve got to have a plan though, right?”

“I can not make a move against Nia until she makes hers,” Lexa answers. “To do so would require evidence of Nia’s treachery.”

“But you have none yet,” Clarke guesses. “What do you need?”

“To confront her? To accuse her?” and Clarke nods at Lexa’s words. “I would need evidence that she sides with the last of the Mountain Men.” 

“That’s it?” 

“That is all someone not of Azgeda can do,” and Lexa’s peers cautiously at her for a moment, and Clarke thinks she doesn’t quite like the way Lexa’s gaze hardens. 

“You want me to do something, don’t you,” and it comes out less question than intended. 

“We have not heard from Prince Roan,” Lexa begins. 

“I know. I have someone looking for him right now,” Clarke gives.

“Echo,” Lexa guesses and Clarke thinks Lexa looks away briefly at the assassin’s name.

“Yes,” and Clarke reaches out quietly, her hand squeezing Lexa’s for a moment. “You can trust her. She wants what’s best for Azgeda, and in her eyes Roan as King is best,” and Clarke lets her own voice firm, “she won’t betray me.”

“You are sure?” 

“As sure as I can be,” and Clarke shrugs and laughs quietly as Lexa’s eyes narrow and as her brow furrows, but conversations past come to her, and she recognises the worry that must live in Lexa’s mind, and so she reaches out, grips her hand once. “Nothing bad will happen,” she whispers, and she knows Lexa thinks of old friends, of old losses and pain. 

“I do not trust her,” Lexa says simply. And so Clarke hums to herself, thoughts turning to Nia, to Lexa and to what she knows will be frightful, worried days yet to come.

“Why can’t you do anything about Nia if she’s involved in Roan’s disappearance?” Clarke asks and Lexa looks away at her words again, thoughts warring in her mind and so Clarke lets her thoughts sift too. She lets them linger and drift through her mind as she sorts through what she knows. “It’s an internal Azgeda matter,” and Clarke thinks she knows she has spoken truth when Lexa doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “You can’t do anything without upsetting the other clans because an internal dispute doesn’t concern the Coalition unless it turns bloody,” and Clarke thinks she knows where her thoughts will take her. “So if Nia’s killed Roan you can’t do anything,” and Lexa nods slightly. “But someone from Azgeda could,” and Clarke knows she has found what Lexa doesn’t wish to voice. “I could.”

“Yes,” is all Lexa says, her voice coming out quiet, gentle, but Clarke thinks a firmness lingers on the timber of her words.

“You want me to challenge Nia to the throne? To take control of Azgeda?”

“Yes,” and Lexa meets her eyes. “Without Roan then Azgeda has no heir other than who Nia wishes it to be.” 

Clarke falls quiet for a moment, and she finds herself thinking over what Lexa asks of her, the difficulties and the risks. 

“No,” Clarke says, her gaze hardening as she looks at Lexa. “I won’t do that,” and she sees Lexa’s eyes narrow, she sees Lexa chin lift slightly. “We agreed that we work together, that we do things together, I’d even do things that needed to be done,” and Clarke pauses for just a moment. “But I won’t let you tell me what do to. Not that.”

“You are a leader, Clarke. Azgeda look to you for guidance at the Mountain. They looked to you for guidance during the Mountain’s fall and they will continue to look to you in the future,” and Lexa stands, paces a few steps from Clarke and then rounds on her, chin now lifting fully and her hands clasped behind her back. “You are Wanheda. The clans respect you, they fear you.”

“No,” and Clarke finds herself standing too, hands coming to rest on her hips. 

“No?”

“No,” and Clarke clenches her jaw, gaze narrowing as she sees Lexa’s eyes roll slightly. “We can find another way to deal with Nia,” Clarke continues. 

“Roan? Echo?” and Lexa’s own voice comes firmer, not quite in anger, not quite in comfort. “Roan is dead, Clarke. Nia has had him killed or he is rotting in a prison.”

“You don’t know that,” Clarke challenges. “Echo will find the evidence we need to _accuse_ Nia. Not challenge her but accuse,” and Clarke steps forward. 

“And what benefit does accusing her achieve?” Lexa says. “To merely discuss her wrong doings? To discuss her poor leadership in front of the ambassadors?”

“I—” but Clarke pauses, her mouth shutting quickly as Lexa’s words wind their way through her mind.

“Do you understand, Clarke?” Lexa asks more gently once more. “It is the only way to avoid bloodshed. Nia will attempt to throw the Coalition into war once more. She will use the Mountain’s tech to gain an advantage in battle, those who fled the Mountain continue to attack our villages, she even makes moves to threaten Skaikru by sending her warriors to Arkadia and the Mountain.”

“We just need evidence that Nia sides with the Mountain Men, that she has had Roan killed,” Clarke says as she worries her lip. “That’s all we need.”

“And if you can not get any of those things?” Lexa challenges quietly once more. “What will you do then?” 

And Clarke thinks Lexa has talked her into a corner, has backed her into a wall, her arguments too sound, too logical.

“We can’t just assassinate her tonight, can we?” and Clarke smiles quietly as Lexa’s eyes take on a far away gaze for just a moment. 

“No, we can not,” and Lexa sighs mournfully. 

A knock echoes through the room then, the thump loud enough for Clarke’s head to snap up and turn to the sound. There’s a pause, Clarke looking at the door for a long moment before she turns to find Lexa holding her gaze, a quiet mirth hiding behind her eyes.

“There is someone at your door, Clarke,” she says.

And so Clarke thinks her cheeks twitch slightly as she moves from Lexa before calling out a quiet _come in._ The doors open smoothly, and Clarke eyes Torvun staring firmly at a young girl who stands in the doorway, arms holding Clarke’s travelling bag and another pack over her shoulder that Clarke recognises as her own, too. Clarke eyes the girl for a moment as she steps forward, the warmth of the candle light quickly casting a low shadow across the angle of her jaw and the curve of her cheeks.

“Your things, Wanheda,” the girl says carefully, her gaze smiling once at Lexa before bowing her head as Clarke begins to move towards her. 

“You should be with Aden, Jani,” Lexa reprimands as she moves towards the girl, and Clarke sees the girl’s back and shoulders straighten, her eyes looking up at Lexa who approaches quietly. 

“Aden says we can have a break and that we must pay our respects to Azgeda, Heda,” the girl answers, her chin lifting in defiance despite the strain Clarke thinks she sees in the girl’s arms from the weight she carries, and Clarke watches as Lexa lifts her own chin, too. “Would it not be disrespectful to not greet Wanheda?” and the girl smiles just slightly at Clarke once more.

“Aden said these things?” Lexa says lowly, her feet having carried her mere paces from the girl now. 

“Yes,” and the girl huffs a lock of dark hair from the green of her eyes. 

“Very well,” and Lexa stops just before the girl, eyes peering down at her. “You may leave.”

And so the girl flashes a barely there smile before she places Clarke’s bags at her feet, bowing with the motion before ducking out of the room, Torvun’s eyes carefully following her as Gustus closes the doors once more.

“Jani,” Lexa says into the silence, Clarke’s gaze confused and unsure of the interaction she had just seen. “She is training to one day take her place as the Commander should the flame choose her.”

“What?” and Clarke thinks she finds herself cringing at her poor choice of words. 

“A story for another day,” Lexa says instead, gaze falling to Clarke’s bags briefly. “I will leave you, Clar—”

“Wait,” and Clarke steps forward quickly, “firstly, you’re going to have to explain why there’s a little you walking around, and secondly,” and Clarke rummages through her bag quickly, “take this,” she says, pushing one of the radios into Lexa’s hands. “It’s a radio. We can use it to talk if we’re ever away from each other.”

“A wise decision,” Lexa says, and Clarke thinks she hears the jest in Lexa’s voice just briefly. 

“It’s for discussing important things,” Clarke says, eyes rolling. “Not just because I want to talk to you.”

“I see,” and Lexa tucks the small radio into a pocket of her coat. “I will leave you for now, Clarke. The ambassadors will meet with you in the morning,” she finishes, already halfway to the doors.

“You’re going to have to explain Jani,” Clarke calls after her.

 

* * *

 

Sleep comes oddly, the sun now long since dipped below the horizon, the dark of the sky now the domain of the moon and the stars. Clarke wakes to the frightful tearing at her mind and she feels the gasp that rips from her lips. The furs are flung from her as she sits, her eyes bleary and her mind tumultuous in the night. Her hand comes to rest against her chest and she feels the beat of her heart and the sweat that clings to her brow. It surprises her too, when her other hand fumbles for a moment, the motion unconscious as she searches for the warmth of Entani, ever restless in sleep, or even Ontari, the other woman often waking to Clarke’s ravaged thoughts. 

There’s a quiet knock on her door though, a gentle thud that breathes into her room and she thinks she already knows who it is and so she slips from the bed and furs, the cool of the night prickling her skin, and she finds her way through the still unfamiliar quarters until she comes to the door.

“Clarke?” and she hears the gruffness and the deep of Torvun’s voice through the door. “Are you ok?” 

“I’m ok, Torvun,” she answers through the door, her forehead resting against the warmth of the wood for a moment. 

“Do you wish to talk?” he asks, and she knows he won’t find sleep again, not until he knows her mind resting once more.

And so Clarke finds herself opening the door to find Torvun standing ever present at the entrance, his gaze a constant, careful roaming down the hallway before it settles on her once more.

“Come in,” she says quietly, her eyes landing on two guards who stand at the far end of the hallway, a large door between them.

Torvun quirks his head only once before a sigh leaves his lips, his eyes glancing behind him as he steps over the threshold, Clarke closing the door behind him as she follows him further into the room.

“It is large,” he says, his eyes roaming over the large bed, the dining table and the couch and smaller table that don’t quite fill the room. 

“Yeah,” and Clarke shrugs, her mind tired, her thoughts awake. Torvun follows her carefully now, Clarke’s feet taking her past the latticework until she stands on the balcony and until she finds herself leaning agains the railing of stone, smoothed from years of use and rising above her waist. “What do you do for fun, Torvun?” and Clarke smiles quietly at the man, his own body coming to stand close by her as he peers down into the lights that dot the depths of Polis below them.

“My duty,” he answers, and she thinks she can hear the smile in his voice. 

“No family back home?” Clarke asks, her eyes catching the sailing of a bird as it dips past a cloud.

“No,” Torvun answers, his hands coming to rest against the railing as he settles himself by her side. “The ground is a harsh place,” he says simply.

“Yeah,” and Clarke smiles sadly up at him for a moment. “It is.”

They fall into a quiet for a long moment, Torvun content to let the silence linger between them, and Clarke finds herself happy to lose herself to the moment she has, but perhaps she can’t quite help but to let her thoughts drift to the conversation she had had with Lexa, to the problems she faces and the worries she knows drift quietly in the back of her mind.

“She wants me to challenge Nia to the throne,” she says, her voice dropping in volume, the wind ever constant as it carries sounds from the streets of Polis.

Torvun goes quiet at her words, or more quiet, and she knows he considers the actions that would lead her to make such a move.

“Azgeda would follow you,” he says, and she feels him peer at her. “Most could not challenge the Kwin without causing chaos,” and he pauses in thought. “Prince Roan could challenge her and you could,” and a hand scratches through his beard, “or perhaps a general of her armies.” 

“But no one else could do it without large portions of Azgeda revolting,” Clarke says, her gaze tracing the scars on Torvun’s forehead briefly. “I don’t want to do it,” Clarke whispers, her gaze turning from Torvun as she looks up into the skies. “I never wanted to rule anything, I never wanted to be in charge of anything. I never even wanted to be responsible for the Azgeda at the Mountain.”

“There are many things we do not wish to happen that do happen,” he says.

“What should I do, Torvun?” and she isn’t quite so sure she wishes to hear the words he may say. 

“I do not know,” and he offers her a small smile, something quiet and careful. “You should not take such a burden if you are not prepared to live with the consequences,” and he pauses for a moment, and Clarke knows he thinks of the Mountain, of how she had dealt one final blow to the Mountain Men and ended their reign. 

“We must make sacrifices for our people,” and she smiles sadly at the echo of words she finds herself voicing.

 

* * *

 

Clarke wakes to daybreak and a knock on the door. Her eyes open slowly, the furs wrapped around her warm to the touch. It only takes her a moment to remember where exactly she now finds herself and so she sits, gaze turning to the door as a knock comes once more.

“Wanheda,” she hears the voice come muffled through the door. “Heda has sent a bath for you, may we enter?” and Clarke thinks she hears Torvun’s muffled words through the door too.

“Come in,” she says, hand carding through her hair as she watches the door open easily and three servants walk through, a large basin held between them.

Who Clarke assumes to be the leader smiles at her respectfully, gaze only once flickering to her face and the scars before turning back to the large basin as it’s placed down in the centre of her room. One of the servants, a young girl, her face showing the signs of an adulthood that still chases away her youthful roundness, ducks out of the room quickly, only to return with two large buckets, steam wafting from them, scents of soaps, spices and salts slowly filling the room.

“Do you wish for us to help?” the first woman says as the young girl begins filling the bath, the third servant, another girl who appears only slightly older already helping. “Your braids?” and the first woman gestures once to her own hair that is braided out of her eyes, and Clarke can’t help but to notice the similarity to Lexa’s own style.

“Sure,” and Clarke shrugs, “just let me…” and she trials off as she looks away for a moment, an awkwardness that she thinks foreign to her settling over her shoulders.

“Call us when you are ready,” the first servant says with an understanding smile and then she rises, gesturing for the two others to follow her out the room. 

And so Clarke watches, her eyes finding the braids all three servants have through their hair, and she thinks her eyes narrow briefly as she recognises the careful curve of a sheathed blade tucked into the small of the first woman’s back, her clothing firmer, less for comfort and more for protection. And perhaps it doesn’t surprise Clarke that even servants must be prepared to protect themselves, even at the capital.

And so Clarke strips quickly, her sleep shirt and small shorts falling to the ground and her skin prickling at the cold of the still early morning. She eyes the large basin that lies in the centre of the room, the steam fogging the air before her eyes and the scents of soaps waking her mind. It’s large, too, the basin’s surface burnished and bronzed, her muddy reflection peering back at her as she eyes it for a long moment, and she finds herself smiling, she even thinks she will enjoy having a bath, her thoughts turning back the months to when she had lived in Ronto and had shared the bathhouse with others, a common thing for all Azgeda.

A gasp leaves her lips as her toes touch the water, the heat enough to give her pause for just a moment before she steps in fully, and so she sinks down, a sigh leaving her lips and a breath filling her lungs as she finds the heat of the water burning away what she is sure is the last of her sleepless night. Her head rests against the edge of the basin, the water lapping at her chin, and so she calls out a careful _come in_ only to wince at what she must think sounds rude, if only because she doesn’t even know the names of the three servants who wait for her.

The door opens quickly, and to Clarke’s surprise she only finds the oldest servant enters her room through the small opening, the other servants standing besides Torvun. 

“They aren’t helping?” Clarke asks awkwardly, unsure of what is expected of her in this moment. 

“Only one is needed for braiding hair,” the woman answers with a soft smile as she comes to kneel besides the basin, hands already pulling small vials and a comb out from a bag left behind.

“Oh,” and Clarke follows the woman’s motions for a moment. “Thanks,” and Clarke finds her voice trailing off once more.

“Shana,” the woman says in answer.

“Thanks Shana,” Clarke finishes.

And so Shana moves to kneel behind Clarke, fingers already carding through her hair, the comb running through it.

“You have a knife,” Clarke says into the silence.

“Yes,” Shana replies, “all handmaidens are trained to serve Heda.”

“The other two didn’t have a weapon,” Clarke says, voice lifting at the end as she thinks of the two other girls.

“No,” and Shana pauses once as she frees a knot from Clarke’s hair. “They are tower servants only.” 

“Oh,” and Clarke thinks of what she knows of Lexa. “So you’re a guard?” 

“Perhaps,” and Clarke thinks she feels Shana shrug. “There are guards whose duty is to protect Heda, and there are handmaidens whose duty is to serve her, but it is important for us to protect her if it is needed.”

“I’m surprised you’d tell me all this,” and Clarke shrugs, fingers happy to splash through the water as Shana continues to bring the comb through her hair. 

“Because you are Azgeda?” and Clarke thinks she feels Shana smiles through her words.

“Yeah,” Clarke shrugs.

“Heda has instructed that you are to be trusted, but you are also Wanheda,” Shana pauses for a moment. “It would not be respectful to ignore such a direct question.

“It’s that easy, huh?” and Clarke peers out through the latticework to see the sun now painting the sky a crimson yellow orange, and the wisps of early clouds streaking through the sky.

“It is that easy,” Shana echoes.

 

* * *

It doesn’t take Shana long to braid Clarke’s hair, and so Clarke finds herself alone, with time to laze in the basin as she watches the sun slowly rise over the horizon. Her thoughts drift for a moment longer, and she finds herself wondering where Entani might be, or what Ontari might be doing at this moment, and she is sure Ontari is already awake. But a knock echoes through her room once more and so she turns to the door just briefly before scanning the room for a towel.

“Hold on,” she calls out as she rises from the basin, the water more cool to the touch now, her hair combed and braided, barely damp. 

Clarke dries herself quickly, her leathers and furs quickly donned as she runs a hand over her braids once to settle them as she walks to the door. She opens it to find Lexa standing outside, pauldron on her shoulder and the red of her sash flowing down her body.

“Hey,” Clarke says as she peers past Lexa and down the hallway briefly. 

“Clarke,” Lexa says in answer, her cheeks twitching up just a bit. “Shana says you are well.”

“Yeah,” and Clarke beckons Lexa inside, her gaze catching Torvun’s who still remains quietly outside by the door. “She seemed nice,” and Clarke takes a moment to consider what she knows of Shana, the handmaiden’s age not much younger than her own. “How many other you’s are there?” she says lightly, her mind recalling the way Shana had lifted her chin slightly in conversation, or how an eyebrow had quirked up evenly.

“Shana has served me since I ascended,” Lexa says simply as she eyes the basin and the now lukewarm water that sits in the centre of the room. “I did not interrupt?” 

“No,” and Clarke follows Lexa’s gaze. “I was just finishing. It was nice,” and Clarke smiles more openly now as her lip begins a smirk. “It’d be nicer with someone else, though,” and she sees Lexa’s eyes widen before a cough escapes her lips.

“The ambassadors are waiting, Clarke,” and Lexa turns brusquely.

And so Clarke thinks she chuckles as she settles the knife against her thigh, as she dons the last of her furs and as she follows Lexa through the door and into the hallway. And as the doors to her quarters shut, as Torvun falls into step besides her and as she follows Lexa, Clarke finds herself thinking of the soon to be had meeting with the ambassadors with bated breath.

 

* * *

 

It’s quiet, the sounds of trees rustling all she hears, but she creeps forward, the snow underfoot less soft, an ice to it that tells her she is close to the Azgeda border. She looks up into the night’s sky again, her eyes finding a constellation and then she pauses. She waits for long enough that she is sure the wind picks up once more and then she slips from the shadows, her gaze moving from tree to tree as she nears the camp she scouts, the fires that burn chasing away only the closest of shadows.

She slips behind a tree once more, her eyes following the path of another Azgeda guard who walks the perimeter of the camp that the warriors returning to Azgeda have set up. She sees him finish his patrol, the end of it putting him besides a larger tent. She feels her skin crawl slightly, she feels her heart beat evenly and slowly, and she thinks whoever is inside that tent is important. 

But she feels it. 

She feels the prickle on the back of her neck and she knows it for what it is. Her eyes dart left then right, her gaze peers up into the branches overhead and she knows there is another who hides. Her hand drops to her knife quietly, her feet already taking her further from the light, her furs muffling the quiet thud of her feet as she begins to move more quickly.

But she feels it.

She feels the presence move with her, she feels it follow her steps and she feels it close in on her. 

Echo knows she is hunted.


	10. Chapter 10

“—zgeda continues to encroach on Trikru lands, you will forgive Glowing Forest for sending reinforcements to the Mountain,” the woman snarls, her gaze firmly meeting Nia’s. “Azgeda will not be allowed to—”

“Azgeda does exactly what the rules of the Coalition allows,” Nia snaps back.

“How would Azgeda explain its warriors at Arkadia?” another woman asks, her gaze equally as sharp as her features.

“Wanheda destroyed the Mountain,” and Nia tips her head towards Clarke. “Her old people are a target for the last of the Mountain Men. Surely it is prudent for Azgeda to repay her actions by protecting her old people.”

The second woman takes a long moment to consider Nia’s words, a finger tapping against the red-browns of her long sleeve.

“And what of Azgeda at the border?” and this time Clarke recognises that this ambassador comes from Lake Clan, the light blue of his clothing similar to that of Jomm’s, who had so often frustrated her during the Mountain’s siege. 

“Azgeda moves its warriors close to the border to protect our own villages,” Nia says simply. “Trikru is not the only clan to be targeted by the last of the Mountain Men.

Clarke follows the back and forth then, and she finds a sigh escaping her lips as the Desert Clan’s ambassador begins questioning Nia, and so Clarke’s eyes wander for a moment, she eyes the ambassadors who sit in front of her, their chairs underneath the banners of each clan they represent. her gaze moves from the Rock Line ambassador, the man large and broad shouldered, she eyes the Glowing Forest ambassador, the woman warily eyeing Nia who continues to reinforce Azgeda’s desire to protect their own villages. But Clarke’s gaze shifts to Lexa’s, the woman sitting in her throne as she watches the back and forth easily, her fingers gripping her armrests with a comfort as she lazes in her throne. Clarke finds herself staring for a long moment, her eyes trying to meet Lexa’s, and she thinks she almost succeeds a number of times only for Lexa to hone her attention back to another ambassador who questions Nia’s actions.

“And why is Wanheda here?” and Clarke turns at the question to find the Broadleaf ambassador looking at her cautiously.

“Wanheda is here to prove how seriously Azgeda takes this matter,” Nia answers. “You accuse Azgeda of not caring? Of being provocative and aggressive, yet who of you take steps to protect Coalition borders?” and Nia sweeps her hands out before her. “Azgeda protects the Mountain, Azgeda moves its warriors to the border to aid Trikru in our fight against the last of the Mountain Men. Azgeda sends its most fierce warriors to come to the aid of Skaikru,” and Nia’s eyes turn to Clarke’s. “Wanheda represents her clan at Polis because Azgeda takes the Mountain Men’s threat seriously,” Nia finishes.

“And why are you here, Kwin Nia, when your ambassador could have delivered Azgeda’s message of commitment,” and Clarke eyes the man who stands besides Lexa as he steps forward, the length of his robes falling to the ground. 

“I am here because Azgeda do not hide behind words,” and Nia pins the man with a firm gaze. “Unlike others in the coalition, Azgeda sends our best. Unlike others, Azgeda do not hide on their thrones, in their capitals.”

“You insult the Commander?” the man says, the bald of his head catching the glimmer of a burning flame as he continues to step closer from where Lexa sits on her throne.

“I do no such thing,” Nia counters. “I merely make observations,” she shrugs. “Azgeda suffered the highest casualties within the Mountain and Azgeda still suffers from the continued attacks by the Mountain Men,” and Nia turns to Clarke slowly, her gaze smiling at her, and as their eyes meet Clarke feels the skin on the back of her neck begin to prickle for a chilled moment. “Azgeda has scouts hunting them even now, and our warriors are ready to fight,” and Nia turns to face the man once more. “What have the other clans done, Titus?”

“Azgeda fights for the Coalition,” Lexa calls out, her voice hardening as she meets Nia’s gaze, and the man, Titus, takes his place by her side once more. “The scouts you have here will work with the Trikru scouts,” Lexa continues as she holds Nia’s gaze. “Trikru and Azgeda will work together as they hunt the Mountain Men,” and Lexa pauses as she meets the eyes of the other ambassadors that sit before her. 

The other ambassadors fall quiet as they bow their heads, Lexa’s words ending further dissent. And so discussion turns to other matters, to trade, to who owes who for lower yields of seasons past and Clarke finds her thoughts drifting once more. She takes the time to gaze around the throne room now, and she finds it rich in colour, deep red cloth draping the walls, a sheer fabric hanging behind Lexa’s throne that helps to cut much of the glare of the sun that shines in from what Clarke assumes must be an open balcony behind Lexa. 

Clarke even spots Anya sitting besides the Trikru ambassador, the man rough in age, his face wiry, the muscles of his tattooed arms cording up weathered skin. Clarke thinks she smiles briefly as she sees Anya’s eyes roll as an ambassador voices concerns of unfair trade negotiations. 

Lexa’s voice rings out through the room once more, and so Clarke turns to find her hand raised easily as she leans forward in her chair.

“We will recess for today,” Lexa says, gaze moving from face to face. “Tomorrow Skaikru will be present,” she finishes as she comes to a stand, her hands clasped behind her back as she looks out at the other ambassadors who rise in turn before bowing their heads before making their leave. “Wanheda, remain,” Lexa says as Clarke begins to rise. “I wish to discuss Skaikru matters with you,” is all Lexa says before she begins moving to a table that sits in the far corner of the room, Anya, Titus and Gustus moving with her.

Clarke meets Nia’s gaze for a quick moment before the Kwin nods, the Azgeda ambassador already in hushed discussion with her as she makes her way from the throne room. It doesn’t take long for the last of the ambassadors to file out, and so Lexa raises a hand once more, and Clarke sees the few guards who remain bow their heads before taking their exit, the doors closing behind them with a low thud. And so Clarke turns to face Lexa and Titus who stand by the large table with the map across it, Gustus and Anya standing close by.

“Just like old times,” Clarke says into the silence, Titus eyeing her carefully, Anya merely snorting at her words. “I’m guessing you don’t actually want to talk about Skaikru?” and she gestures around them, “no Skaikru are here.”

“It is not the only reason,” Lexa responds as her gaze turns to the map, and as Clarke eyes the map herself she finds small figures placed along the Trikru-Azgeda border. “I believe that the Mountain Men will become more bold now that Nia is in Polis.”

“You’re sure?” Clarke asks, her gaze moving to Titus briefly.

“As sure as we can be,” Lexa says, eyes tracking the details of the map for a moment. 

“What’s going to happen?” Clarke asks once again, her gaze following a river that winds its way through the roughened map. 

“Nia will make her move,” Lexa answers, gaze moving to Anya’s for a moment before shifting to Gustus who stands close by. “The Mountain Men will attack somewhere close enough that Nia can communicate with them quickly, she will use that to begin to sway the ambassadors against me and the actions I have taken and then she will challenge me to the throne,” Lexa finishes.

“Can’t you do something?” Clarke says, her gaze turning to Gustus who grumbles quietly under his breath. “If you know all the moves Nia’s going to do why can’t you act?”

“The Commander must have proof,” Titus cuts in, his gaze hardening as his eyes follows the scars on Clarke’s face. 

“So what? We’re just going to roll over and show our bellies while Nia does what she wants?”

“I have Trikru warriors protecting Arkadia,” Lexa says. “Rangers from the southern parts of Trikru are already in the forests protecting the other villages near the border,” and Lexa taps on areas of the map, small figures marking different villages.

“You have to have a plan, Lexa,” and Clarke steps around the table until she stands closer to the other woman, her hand coming to reach for Lexa’s wrist, only for Lexa to glance once to Titus before squaring her shoulders, hands coming to rest behind her back. “You can’t seriously just be waiting for Nia to do something.”

“It is the only option available to us without proof of Nia’s treachery,” Lexa answers. “Nia will issue the challenge and I will meet—”

“—That’s not a plan,” Clarke insists, her gaze flicking from Anya to Gustus before settling on Titus who peers at her cautiously. “You can’t really just be waiting for her to do something,” Clarke says after a moment, her hip coming to lean against the table. 

“Why do you make moves against your own clan?” Titus cuts into the silence. “You are Azgeda yet you question your Kwin.”

“I want what’s best for my people,” Clarke answers, chin lifting as she meets Titus’ gaze. “War with the Coalition would be horrible for Azgeda. I don’t want that,” and she turns to meet Anya’s quiet sigh. 

“Clarke has fought for her people, Titus,” Lexa says evenly.

“And you trust her?” he counters.

“I’m standing right here.”

“We will not have this discussion,” and Lexa pins Titus with a stern look, her eyes hardening in the light.

Titus bows his head after a pause, his jaw clenching as he takes a measured step back. Lexa looks around herself and then her gaze moves over the map before her as she takes in a shallow breath and holds it for a moment. 

“Leave us,” she says, her eyes meeting Anya and Gustus who both nod their heads once, and then her gaze shifts to Titus whose eyes narrow at her words. 

Clarke watches as Titus pauses for a moment before he, too, turns and makes his way to the doors, the robes he wears flowing around his steps. And so Clarke finds herself alone in the throne room with Lexa, the other woman eyeing the door for a long moment, the sounds of footfalls receding and the wind that breezes through the balcony behind her throne the only sounds to fill the large space.

“He doesn’t like me, does he?” Clarke asks into the silence, eyes moving over Lexa’s face.

“Titus is cautious,” Lexa says in answer as she turns back to the map. “You are Azgeda so Titus is wary of your loyalties,” she finishes with a shrug.

“He doesn’t know, does he?” and Clarke thinks back to when Lexa had avoided her touch only moments ago.

“He would not approve,” Lexa says, her eyes meeting Clarke’s quietly.

“Who is he, exactly?” and Clarke jerks her chin towards the door. “Advisor?”

“Teacher,” Lexa answers, “and Fleimkepa.”

“You do realise I don’t know what a Fleimkepa is, right?” and Clarke lets a warmth find a place in her words as she comes to rest a hip against the table’s edge once more, arms crossing over her chest as she peers at Lexa’s profile. 

“They serve the Spirit of the Commander,” Lexa says. “Titus has been Fleimkepa long before I ascended.”

“That still doesn’t tell me much, Lexa,” and Clarke thinks she sees Lexa’s eyes roll for a moment.

“Then perhaps it is a discussion for another day, Clarke,” and Lexa turns to meet her gaze.

And so Clarke smiles once, fingers slowly coming to smooth over the map on the table, and her eye follows the river from earlier, her gaze follows its twists and turns as it bends and wends its way through the forest.

“Are all meetings like that?” Clarke asks.

“Yes,” and Lexa sighs quietly. “Ambassadors are not easily satisfied,” she continues. “They often do not appreciate how tiresome their arguments can become.”

“The joys of being in charge,” and Clarke smiles softly, eyes tracing the outline of the Mountain that sits quietly on the map.

“Yes,” and she thinks she feels the exhale that Lexa must breathe.

“You’re really just going to wait until Nia makes the first move,” and Clarke isn’t so sure if her words come out as question or statement.

“Yes, Clarke,” and Clarke feels Lexa begin to move around the table evenly, her eyes peering at landmarks and features that dot the large map. “Nia is cunning and she is patient. She has the advantage of having prepared this plan of hers for many years,” and Lexa pauses in her steps to meet Clarke’s gaze. “So yes, I will wait for her to make the first move.”

“And then what?” and Clarke leans forward. “You’ll fight whoever fights for Nia? That’s it?” 

“Yes,” Lexa says simply.

“What if you don’t win?” and Clarke worries her lip briefly. “You don’t seem to care about losing.” 

“I do care, Clarke,” and Lexa lifts her chin slightly. “I will win—”

“But if you don’t.”

“Then the Spirit will choose the next Commander,” and Lexa smiles briefly.

“What happens when you win?” and Clarke lets her mind turn to the future for a moment.

“Then Nia’s plan will have failed and the laws of the Coalition will allow me to remove her from power.”

“Then what?” and Clarke thinks she knows what Lexa will next say.

“Then a new ruler of Azgeda must be chosen,” and it comes simply.

“You still want it to be me,” Clarke says.

“Yes, Clarke,” and Lexa leans forward over the table slightly. “You were born for this, same as me,” and Lexa holds her gaze for a long moment. “You are a leader your people already look to for guidance.”

“What about Ro—”

“Roan is more than likely dead, Clarke,” and Lexa begins to circle the table once more, each step taking her closer to Clarke’s side.

“But if he isn’t?” Clarke counters.

“Then where is he? Why has he not contacted you?”

“He could be in hiding,” Clarke pushes. “What if he realised Nia’s plans and tried to get away, and is stuck in Azgeda lands until it’s safe for him to get back?” 

“And who would help Roan in such a matter?” Lexa says. “You must consider all options, Clarke,” and Lexa stops before her, eyes holding Clarke’s gaze for a moment. “Yes, if Roan is still alive then he can take the throne after I defeat Nia’s champion, but if he is not found by then someone else must take it or Azgeda will fall into chaos.”

“It won’t come to that,” and Clarke worries her lip, her words leaving her less sure then she would like.

“There are many things we do not wish to happen that do, Clarke,” and Lexa looks to the door briefly before stepping closer to her. “To be a leader is to make sacrifices for our people, Clarke,” and Lexa reaches out, her fingers curling around Clarke’s briefly with a gentle squeeze before she lets go. “You will not be alone if it comes to it.”

“Ok,” and Clarke turns from Lexa, the other woman’s gaze lingering across her face for a moment. “Can we talk about something else?” and Clarke feels the furrow in her brows that begins to spread.

“We can discuss anything, Clarke,” and Lexa turns so that she now stands by Clarke’s side, her shoulder only just brushing against Clarke’s own.

“Jani,” and Clarke smiles when she hears Lexa sigh slightly. “Who is she?” 

“A nightblood,” Lexa says simply. 

“You do realise half the things you’re saying I don’t know what they are, Lexa. You have to give me more than just a name.”

“Nightbloods are the only ones who can receive the Spirit of the Commander.”

“That’s not really explaining what a nightblood is,” Clarke says once more.

“Our blood is black,” Lexa says simply, her head cocking to the side.

“Oh,” and Clarke winces slightly, her mind not quite sure how to react to what Lexa says. “Your blood’s black?” 

“Yes,” Lexa says. “Nightblood,” she finishes simply.

“And Jani has it, too?” and Clarke thinks of what may have caused it, the mutations that must have been a result of radiation.

“Yes, Clarke,” Lexa answers.

“She seems to know you really well,” Clarke continues, her mind turning back to the small moment she had had with the young girl and the way she had lifted her chin.

“I have known her since she was a newborn,” Lexa says, her eyes smiling quietly at the memory. “She came to Polis at the same time I did,” and Lexa begins to walk around the table quietly, hands held behind her back. 

“You’ve not always lived here?” Clarke asks, her eyes tracking Lexa’s movements.

“No,” and Lexa stops in her movements to meet Clarke’s gaze. “When a nightblood is found they are brought to Polis to train,” and she thinks for a moment, a memory slowly being recalled. “I was almost ten when I was discovered,” Lexa continues, “Jani was a newborn when she was discovered at the same time.”

“What about your parents?” but Clarke thinks she has touched upon a sore topic as Lexa looks away briefly.

“It is a blessing for a child to have nightblood, Clarke,” and Lexa begins to move slowly once more around the table.

“You don’t see them?” Clarke asks, Lexa’s unspoken words clear for Clarke to read.

“They no longer live,” Lexa says simply, her eyes falling to the Mountain.

Clarke winces at the words, her mind reprimanding herself at the direction she has steered the conversation, “I’m sorry,” she says quietly.

“It was not your fault, Clarke,” Lexa says in answer.

And so Clarke turns her mind to other things in search of a topic less sore, “so you’ve known Jani since she was a baby?”

“Yes,” Lexa answers. “She was too young to take part in my conclave.”

“When you became the Commander?” Clarke asks.

“Yes,” and Lexa’s gaze turns darker for a moment. “She was no more than five,” Lexa finishes simply. “There are other nightbloods,” Lexa says, her mind already anticipating Clarke’s next question. “Perhaps you will meet them another time,” Lexa finishes with a smile.

Lexa’s gaze turns to the balcony, her eyes tracking the swaying of the sheer fabric that hangs from the ceiling, and so Lexa turns to Clarke, her head inclining in invitation and Clarke feels her lips smile as she begins to walk forward.

It surprises Clarke when she feels the wind that is held back by the fabric, the chill of the open air enough to catch her breath for a long moment. And so Lexa eyes her as they find themselves resting against the stone railing, the vastness of Polis spreading out below them.

“Polis is beautiful,” Clarke says quietly, her eyes tracking the streets that wind between buildings and the richness of colours that flash through the streets only to be swallowed by the forest that surrounds the city on all four sides and the swathe of mountain ridges that fade into the distance, some snowcapped, some jagged as they reach up into the sky.

Clarke eyes the sky for a moment, her gaze tracing the clouds overhead and the sun that only just begins to settle at the highest point in the sky.

“The peace will not last,” Lexa says quietly, and Clarke knows Lexa gazes at her. “Nia will march on Polis,” she continues, “perhaps it will not be tomorrow, or next season, or even two seasons from now. But Nia will march on Polis if she still rules Azgeda, Clarke,” and Lexa’s voice quiets, it softens and the timber of it lessens as the last of her words leave her lips.

“I know,” and it comes out tinged with a sadness, and Clarke lets herself think of what she knows of Nia, of the things Nia has done and the things Lexa has done, and perhaps even the things she knows herself to have done. “I never wanted to rule anything though,” Clarke whispers to Lexa, the other woman’s shoulder brushing against hers for a moment.

“There are many things we do not wish to happen that do, Clarke,” Lexa echoes from earlier.

 

* * *

 

Clarke finds herself at the training grounds, her feet scuffing against the dirt underfoot as she takes in lungfuls of air, Torvun close by her side as he waits for her to catch her breath once more. She had left Lexa and Polis tower near midday, their shared conversation weighing on her mind. She had felt the tension building, too, and so she had found her way to the training grounds. 

And so she looks up at the groan of pain and the thump that echoes out through the lightly crowded area to find Ontari struggling up to her feet as Entani winces slightly, all the while Teril continues to smirk down at her from where he stands, his feet lazy in their movements.

Ontari struggles to her feet with a scowl, her hand coming to wipe at the sweat against her forehead as her hand reaches out for her blunted blade. Teril only watches for a moment, long enough for Ontari’s fingers to fully close around the handle of the blade before he lunges. Ontari senses his shift in posture just as his feet leave the dirt and so she curses out, ducks a swing and rolls from him as she already begins to swivel on her knees, blade swiping out behind her as she comes to her feet. But Teril closes in on her, his sword slashing at her leg, Ontari shifts her leg with the motion, the strike only just missing her before Teril spins with the momentum, his fist snapping out as he comes to face her once more, and Clarke winces as she once more hears the slap of Teril’s hand as it crashes against Ontari’s nose.

“Stay down, Ontari,” Teril says from where he stands over her. “You will not best me,” and he eyes her for a moment, his lips turning up into a smirk as he watches Ontari spit out a mouthful of blood. 

Clarke smiles as she sees curses fall from Ontari’s lips as the woman is helped up by Entani, already holding a clean cloth to her nose.

“I’m glad you don’t hit me so hard, Torvun,” Clarke says as she turns to the large man by her side. 

“Do you wish me to?” he asks, hand swiping at his scalp as sweat drips down the side of his face.

“Nope,” she laughs as she eyes Ontari making her way to them, Teril already turning to another of Nia’s guards who approaches, sword in hand as it swings out lazily before her, clearly eager to test her own skills against Teril.

“Teril is skilled at range and at close quarters,” Torvun says more quietly, his eyes tracking Teril as he slips from under the other guard before rising behind her, foot lashing out at her thigh as she turns quickly too.

“You’ve served with him, right?” Clarke asks, nodding once at Ontari who comes to a rest by her side.

“Yes,” Torvun says simply. 

“How’s your nose?” Clarke asks, the conversation between her and Torvun quickly dropping.

“Fine,” Ontari says, her voice coming muffled from behind the cloth held to her nose.

“Your shoulder looked better,” Clarke says, her gaze falling to Ontari’s shoulder briefly. 

Ontari shrugs at her words with hardly a wince, “it is getting better,” she finishes.

They fall into a quiet then, their eyes tracking Teril who disarms the other guard before elbowing her across the jaw. Clarke watches as the woman rolls with the blow only for Teril to pounce onto her, knees pinning her arms to the side as he drags a hand across her throat, the act a clear simulation of slicing under her chin with a blade.

“Teril has killed another,” Torvun says easily. 

“Yeah,” and Clarke worries her lip as she sees him help the other guard to her feet, hand clapping her across the shoulder as she grumbles under her breath.

But Clarke sees the two guards sense a shift in the air, and Clarke feels Torvun sense the same as he tenses and as he turns from her. And so Clarke follows his eyes to find Nia standing at the edge of the training grounds, Polis tower rising up behind her in the distance as she begins to walk past a few warriors from other clans who eye her suspiciously, her own guards glaring harshly at any who move too close or too fast.

Clarke feels the Azgeda slowly move towards Nia then, and so she finds her own feet taking her forward, the few Azgeda, no more than twenty slowly coalescing into a group as Nia comes to a stop before them.

“I am pleased you are preparing yourselves,” Nia says, eyes moving from scarred face to scarred face she sees. “Come Clarke, I wish for you to walk with me,” and Nia’s eyes snap to Clarke’s with a smile. 

 

* * *

 

The walk through Polis is an odd experience, Clarke finds. It’s tense in that she feels Nia’s gaze on her even when the Kwin lets her gaze wander, it’s tense because Clarke feels the prickle on the back of her neck the longer she stays in the Kwin’s proximity, and Clarke thinks it tense if only because she knows not what Nia knows.

Clarke hears Teril growl out a warning to a passerby who walks too close, the Lake Clan warrior merely grunting out his own response as he passes, and so Clarke lets her gaze move from person to person she sees, vendors behind carts, smiles on their faces as they barter and trade with those before them. Clarke eyes merchants who move through the streets, some pulling carts, others carrying baskets, and Clarke sees people who must live in Polis, some warriors, some craftsmen and others whose job Clarke can’t quite put her finger on. 

“What do you think of Polis, Clarke?” Nia asks over her shoulder, her eyes flashing to Clarke’s easily.

“It is large,” Clarke answers, the truth in her words clear for any to see. 

“It is,” Nia says, her lip curling up slightly at her words before she turns her attention back to where she walks.

And so Clarke continues to follow the many guards that flank Nia and who push their way through the throng of people as Nia winds her way deeper and deeper into the depths of Polis. And it must be an age that they walk, the sun now slowly beginning its descent in the sky, but as they turn another corner Clarke registers the shift in moods, in the colours that surround her and that hang from the buildings that spring up all around her. 

“Azgeda sector,” Nia says simply, her eyes tracking a banner that drapes the front of a large building, the stark white of the hand glinting in the sunlight. 

Clarke notices that many more Azgeda line the streets now, the majority warriors, hardened and roughened to the harshness of the ground. Clarke eyes a few from other clans, some craftsmen and merchants, their clothing more vibrant and rich than the whites and greys of Azgeda. 

“Merchants brave enough to face Azgeda are welcomed in Azgeda sector,” Teril says as Clarke eyes the few merchants about.

“Not many want to trade here?” Clarke asks, but from the way a quiet settles over this part of Polis, Clarke thinks she can’t blame the masses for avoiding this small Azgeda keep.

“The market is better suited for trade,” Nia says from where she walks, her head nodding in acknowledgement to a number of warriors who pass her, their own heads bowing. “Azgeda sector is for warriors,” she finishes simply.

Clarke notices that many of these warriors carry the same half circle scars slashed across their faces, the line and curve of them similar to Teril’s.

“Many are from the Northern villages,” Nia says simply, eyes tracking Clarke’s wandering gaze.

“How many are here?” Clarke asks cautiously, and as the words leave her lips she thinks she feels the smirk Nia lets spread across her lips. 

“Enough,” Nia answers as she comes to a stop at a door, this one large and not unlike the doors to Nia’s throne room Clarke had visited months ago. “Come, Clarke,” Nia says as she steps inside, guards peeling off to take position outside as Teril walks in first, his gaze sweeping over the interior.

And so Clarke enters too, her eyes quickly adjusting to the dimmed light to find a large table that sits at the far end of the long space, a fire burning in its place in the centre of the floor, and a throne of simple stone wrapped in furs at the head of the table.

“You will dine with me, Clarke,” Nia says as she begins walking forwards, “you must be hungry after training.”.

And so Clarke nods her head simply, the truth of Nia’s words making themselves known as her stomach grumbles to the scents of foods cooked and spiced. And as Clarke begins to walk towards the large table she feels Teril’s eye drilling into her, and she eyes that same servant who had been present last time she had eaten with Nia, the woman’s eyes peering at her cautiously before looking away, the scar across her cheek and that dips into her lip glinting dimly in the candle light.


	11. Chapter 11

Nia’s fork clinks against the metal of her plate for a moment, and Clarke’s eyes follow the knife as it slices through a vegetable, the flesh of it supple, the skin roasted and crusted with spices. Clarke brings her own fork to her mouth, the clink of the metal and her teeth echoing within her head. Nia’s eyes flash to hers easily before eyeing Teril who must stand close by, and Clarke is sure the guard keeps his gaze focused on her, she is certain his hand still rests against the knife strapped to his ribs. 

Clarke’s gaze moves to the servant’s, she eyes the woman who stands in the shadows, the brown of her eyes settled at her feet as she waits for Nia to give her a task. Nia’s hand rises easily, her own eyes turning to the servant, and so Clarke watches as the woman steps forward, a beaker in her hands that she uses to fill Nia’s mug before she returns to her place in the shadows.

“How is Echo?” Nia says into the silence, her eyes holding Clarke’s for a long moment. 

And Clarke feels the tensing of her own muscles, and she knows she feels the prickle of tension that builds somewhere in the corners of her mind. 

“Echo is well,” Clarke answers easily, gaze steady as she meets Nia’s own. But as the words leave her lips she can’t help but to feel a worry begin to settle, the days since Echo’s departure and her lack of contact a worrying thought.

“She did not travel with us to Polis,” Nia continues, eyes moving to the servant briefly.

“No, Kwin Nia,” and Clarke lowers the fork for a moment. “I did not think it prudent for an assassin to be in such close proximity to the Commander,” and Clarke thinks she sees the smallest of smiles find a place in Nia’s gaze.

“There are many things the Commander need not know,” Nia answers as she breaks a small loaf of bread with her hands, knife quickly slicing a sliver of meat and cheese. “But it was a wise decision,” and Nia smiles more warmly now. “You have done well, Clarke.”

“Thank you,” and Clarke worries her mind, and she knows herself unsure of what Nia congratulates her for. 

“You do not wish to know what I congratulate you for?” and Nia leans forward easily, a smile on her lips once more.

“I did not wish to be rude, Kwin Nia,” Clarke says in answer. 

“You are Wanheda,” Nia says, “perhaps I would forgive your bluntness,” and she pauses as she takes a small bite of the bread. “You are smart,” and Nia lifts the corner of her lip slightly as she turns back to her food, words trailing off as she begins to slice into another roasted root. 

And so Clarke lets the silence linger for a moment as she too bites into another root, this one orange, its flesh a slight sweetness that mixes with the salts.

“You are smart, Clarke,” and Nia looks up once more. “For doing what you have done,” and Clarke feels her heart freeze for a moment. “I did not even consider it at first,” and Nia shrugs, knife slowly cutting into a large piece of meat. “But you are resourceful,” Nia continues, “you have shown yourself to be tactful, cunning, even deceitful,” and Nia’s eyes linger across her face.

And Nia pauses for a moment, eyes moving to the servant for a brief second before she meets Clarke’s gaze once more. 

“Tell me, Clarke,” and Nia leans forward. “When did you think of doing what you have done? Was it during the siege of the Mountain? Was it in the war meetings with Lexa? Was it after? When you had met with her?”

“I—” and Clarke’s mouth feels too dry, too rough to voice more than a choked whimper.

“Is that how you forced my son’s release?” and Nia’s head tilts to the side as her finger smoothes over the handle of the knife cradled in her hands. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Clarke whispers, and she knows her pulse beats more rapidly now, and she thinks she even feels Teril’s presence move closer from behind. 

“Do not lie, Clarke,” and Nia’s eyes flash in the dark of the room. “You have come this far and it would insult your actions to lie now,” and Nia eyes the way Clarke’s fingers grip the knife tightly. 

“I—” 

“You thought I would be angry?” and Nia’s head tilts to the side as she studies Clarke. “You thought I would be furious?” and Nia’s lips smile once more. 

“What do you want me to say?” Clarke’s words come quiet and pained, and she can’t quite feel where Teril stands now, and she knows he must be close enough to intercept an attack, close enough to bleed her before she could even lift an arm. 

“It is not your fault.”

And Clarke’s eyes blink once, twice, uncertainty colouring her thoughts. 

“Roan has disappointed me,” Nia shrugs, “it is not your fault that he betrayed the throne,” and Nia sighs slightly. “You made moves to ensure Azgeda would thrive, it is not your fault that you could not anticipate treachery from him.”

And Clarke’s eyebrows quirk together for only a moment before she blanks her expression, a realisation dawning on her, her heart still beating furiously in her chest. 

“It was smart, Clarke,” Nia continues once more, “to fool Lexa,” and Nia scoffs. “She talks of weaknesses and strength and love, yet she allows herself to be weakened by a facade,” and so Nia leans forward once more, her lips smiling more openly now. “Lexa is a fool to think you care for her.”

 

* * *

Clarke can’t quite remember the last time her heart has felt so frantic. She can feel the pulse that twitches in her neck, the clamminess to her fingers and the sweat that trickles down her back despite the cool of the season. Her feet take her to the elevator, and she eyes it for a moment, uncertain now of how to call it to her. Her eyes shift from one side of the doors before moving to the other before they land on the lever that hangs down slightly.

“They are fixing it,” and Clarke turns to the small voice to find Jani standing not far from her. 

“It’s broken?” Clarke asks, and she is sure the words worry her lips as she eyes the door that hides the rising of Polis Tower.

“Not broken,” and Jani thinks for a moment as she huffs a lock of brown hair from her eyes. “But Heda has them change the ropes often,” and Jani turns sheepish for a moment. “She doesn’t not wish for someone to fall to their death once more,” and Jani scuffs a foot briefly. 

“Someone died?” and Clarke turns back to the doors and she eyes them for a long moment.

“Not since before Heda ascended,” Jani says with a nodding of her head. “But Heda does not want it to happen again,” she finishes.

“Oh,” and Clarke can’t help but to feel herself slowly settle, her thoughts running less wildly through her mind as Jani continues to eye her cautiously.

“You are Azgeda,” Jani says, and Clarke sees the young girl trace the scars over her face. 

“I am,” Clarke answers, en eyebrow raising as she holds the girl’s gaze.

“But you are Skaikru, too,” and Clarke can’t quite tell if Jani’s words are question or statement. But she thinks they might be both, if only because Jani’s head tilts to the side, the motion much too familiar.

“I’ve never really thought of myself as Skaikru,” Clarke answers, the realisation dawning on her slowly. 

But Jani shrugs once more, “you are like me,” she surmises simply. “I do not remember the clan I came from,” and she looks up in thought for a moment. “I am a nightblood,” she shrugs. “L—”

“Jani,” and the girl’s eyes widen before she spins around, back straightening as she comes face to face with Lexa who stalks forward carefully. “You should be with Aden and the others,” Lexa says as she comes to a stop before the girl.

“Ade—”

“I do not wish to hear your excuse,” and Lexa’s eyes harden as her words leave her lips. “G—”

“Aden sai—”

“Is Aden the Commander?” and Lexa steps forward once, before coming to a stop just a breath from Jani. 

“No, Heda,” and Jani looks away, eyes downcast. “I will retu—”

“Wait, Jani,” and Clarke sees Lexa’s gaze soften just a little as she continues to look down at Jani, eyes not quite meeting Lexa’s. “You have been using your knife?” and Lexa peers pointedly at the small knife Clarke now notices tucked into Jani’s belt.

“Yes Heda,” and Jani’s hand comes to rest atop the handle as she worries her lip, eyes searching Lexa’s for a long moment.

“Show Wanheda what you have learnt,” and Lexa steps back a few paces as a small smile begins to spread across Jani’s lips.

And so Jani looks to Clarke for only a moment before she smiles more openly, fingers closing around the hilt of her blade. And then she flicks her wrist up, the knife slipping from the small sheath as it spins in the air for a moment, and Clarke watches as the blade catches the light of a flickering flame and then Jani snatches it from the air, and Clarke lets an eyebrow raise as Jani spins the knife between her fingers before flipping it behind herself with a flick of her wrist before snatching it from over her shoulder once more.

“Very impressive,” Clarke says as she watches Jani slip the blade into its place against her hip with a small flourish. 

“It is not hard,” Jani shrugs.

“Return to Aden, Jani,” Lexa quickly cuts in as she jerks her chin towards the exit. 

And so Jani smiles ruefully before running off, the dark of her clothing bleeding into the shadows, but Clarke can’t help but eye two warriors who peel off from the far walls as they move quickly after Jani, their gazes only once meeting Lexa’s before they, too, slip out into the afternoon sun.

“Jani has guards?” Clarke asks into the silence that settles over them.

“All Nightbloods must have guards,” Lexa answers, head tilting to the side as she begins to walk down a corridor, her gaze beckoning Clarke to follow. 

“And they let Jani go wherever she wants?” Clarke asks as she falls into step besides Lexa.

“They have grown accustomed to her behaviour,” and Clarke thinks she sees the quirking of Lexa’s lips for a moment. “This way, Clarke,” and Lexa pauses at a bend, her hand guiding Clarke down the passageway that she finds leads to a stairwell. 

Clarke steps forward, eyes peering up as the stairs begin to twist and turn higher and higher up the tower.

“Just like the Mountain,” Clarke says quietly, thoughts turning to the nights when Lexa would meet her on the Mountain’s side.

And so the two women begin the long ascent up the stairs.

 

* * *

Clarke can’t quite believe how far they’ve walked, but as they crest the last rise of the steps she knows sweat prickles the small of her back and her thighs protest the struggle and she knows sleep will find her easily tonight. She looks to her right to find Lexa barely breathing as she too comes to a pause at the top of the stairs, her eyes moving up and down the corridor briefly before moving down to the right and towards the two large doors that sit recessed into the wall, two guards ever present on either side.

“How are you not tired,” and Clarke wipes a hand over her face as she takes in a large breath.

“I have climbed the stairs many times, Clarke,” Lexa replies easily as she nods once to the guards who open the doors for her. 

Clarke rolls her eyes slightly at Lexa’s words, and she finds herself just a moment unsure if Lexa makes a joke or merely utters a statement. But the thoughts quickly flee from Clarke’s mind as she steps through the open doors and comes face to face with what Clarke finds to be Lexa’s own quarters. 

She finds Lexa’s quarters to be similar to her own, a large bed covered in furs rests against the wall to her right, two small couches sit in the centre of the room, a small table between them. Clarke even spots a similar latticework that rings the room, sun dappling through the intricacies of the pattern that is carved and etched into it. Clarke can’t help but to eye the one too many candles that dot Lexa’s room though, some burn on table tops, some melt into wood, some even hang from the ceiling, chains and delicate metal sconces swaying just barely with the breeze that filters in through what Clarke assumes to be an open balcony hidden behind the latticework.

“I—”

“We need to ta—”

Both women pause in their words as they eye each other for a moment. 

“Speak, Cl—”

“—Go”

And Clarke winces at the awkwardness she now feels, this moment for some reason seemingly more personal, more awkward and close than she has experienced with Lexa before.

“Speak, Clarke,” Lexa says as she begins to move through her room, her fingers beginning to loosen the coat that seems ever present upon her shoulders. 

“Nia thinks I’m using you,” Clarke says, eyes following Lexa for a moment. “She thinks this,” and Clarke gestures between them awkwardly, “isn’t real,” and Clarke worries her lips. 

But as the words reach Lexa’s ears, Clarke sees her freeze, sees her stiffen and tense. 

“She knows?” and Lexa snaps her eyes to the door once before her hand comes to rest against the knife strapped to her thigh, fingers worrying the wood of the handle. “Clarke, we must act now,” and Clarke watches for only a moment before Lexa begins moving towards the door.

“Wait Lexa,” Clarke says as she steps in front of her. “Just hold on a second.”

“We can not—”

“Stop,” and Clarke puts her hands on Lexa’s shoulders firmly, but as Clarke takes in Lexa’s widened eyes and the way her gaze shifts continuously to the door, thoughts of the little she knows of Costia move through her mind. “Just hold on for a second, ok?”

Lexa’s gaze narrows at her words, but she stills her forward movement long enough for Clarke to push her back further into the room and away from the doors. 

“You don’t have to worry, Lexa,” Clarke continues. “We’ve got the advantage now,” and Clarke lets a small smile lift the corner of her lips. 

“You can not be certain,” Lexa counters, eyes once more moving to the door before snapping back to Clarke. 

“Nia’s had enough opportunity to take me out,” and Lexa winces at Clarke’s words, “but she hasn’t, so she has to actually think I’m using you,” and Clarke finds herself wincing as the words leave her own lips. 

“How does she know,” Lexa hisses. 

“I don’t know,” Clarke answers with a shrug, hands falling from Lexa’s shoulders cautiously.

Lexa’s eyes close for a long moment then, and Clarke watches as she takes in a deep breath before letting it out. 

“We should not be seen together,” Lexa begins after a moment

“It’s too late for that,” Clarke counters. “Nia already knows, maybe other people know, too.”

“It is dangerous, Clarke.”

“I know,” and Clarke looks away for a breath as she considers bringing Costia up, and she thinks Lexa herself thinks of Costia from the way her eyes harden before darkening. “We can use this, Lexa,” she says more firmly.

And so Lexa takes a step back, the grip on her knife relaxing as she rolls her shoulders before finding a place on one of the couches in the centre of the room. They fall silent for a moment then, and Clarke finds herself sitting opposite Lexa, and she watches as the brunette’s jaw clenches and shifts anxiously for a long moment, her eyes tracing the etchings on the small table between them.

“It was always going to be dangerous,” Clarke whispers, hand reaching out tentatively. “Whatever this is,” and she gestures between them. “We’ve never really defined what we have, not even discussed what it is exactly, but I always knew it could be dangerous,” she finishes. 

“It is dangerous, Clarke,” and Lexa looks away briefly.

“Didn’t we agree that life was about more than just surviving?” Clarke jokes quietly. 

“Perhaps,” Lexa responds, and as Clarke continues to eye her, she thinks she feels the tension in Lexa’s body begin to lessen, begin to recede ever so slightly. 

“We have an advantage now,” Clarke continues. 

“Nia will want to use you to wound me,” Lexa says, eyes now finding Clarke’s. 

“It won’t be like last time,” Clarke whispers more quietly now, unsure if she should voice Costia’s name. “I’m too important for her to get rid,” and she reaches forward and squeezes Lexa’s knee briefly, Lexa’s worry for her not unnoticed. “We can use this, Lexa, I can get close to her, maybe even get her to tell me what she’s planning.”

“I do not like it,” Lexa says, and Clarke thinks Lexa not quite convinced yet, but for now she finds herself content with the small concession that Lexa offers in the way their eyes meet.

“You were going to say something,” Clarke says after a moment, the awkwardness of how this conversation started being recalled.

“It is not important,” Lexa answers, “for now we have greater concerns,” she finishes as she meets Clarke’s eyes.

And so Clarke shrugs once. Clarke leans back then, her eyes taking in Lexa’s room, and she can’t help but to feel the smile that tugs at the corner of her lips as she gazes at a candle that melts into a brass sconce that hangs and sways from the ceiling. 

“Even your room has candles,” she says in jest as she tries to lighten the tension that she is sure Lexa tries to hide.

“It does,” Lexa says simply, eyes once more staring into the wood of the small table before her.

“How many nightbloods are there?” Clarke asks, curiosity and a wish to lessen the worry she sees on Lexa’s face spurring her words forth. “Jani, Aden and others?”

“Yes,” and Lexa sighs once more before nodding to herself. “There are seven,” and Lexa finally meets Clarke’s gaze again. “Aden is the oldest,” and Clarke thinks she sees a small pride linger in Lexa’s eyes. 

“And they’re training to become the next Commander if something ever happens to you?” and Clarke tries to ignore the twitching of her mind as thoughts of what could happen float through her mind.

“Yes,” and Lexa’s voice turns just a moment more cold, more detached. “When I die they will fight in the conclave and only one will be chosen.”

“How do they decide who wins?” Clarke asks, but as her question leaves her lips she thinks she recognises what must happen, why Jani is already comfortable with a knife the length of her hand despite her youth. “It’s a fight to the death, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Clarke,” and Lexa meets her gaze. “Only the strong survive. Only the strongest can ascend and take the flame.”

“And what is that, exactly?” Clarke asks, Lexa’s colourful language somewhat lost on her. 

“The Spirit of the Commander,” Lexa says simply.

And so Clarke’s eyes roll, Lexa’s thought clearly elsewhere, but she eyes the tense woman for a moment, and she eyes the way Lexa’s hands don’t quite relax, her fingers gripping her knees as her jaw clenches as her gaze flitters back and forth, and Clarke assumes Lexa’s mind must be moving quickly, must be considering events and actions and plots.

“Stop,” Clarke says with a sigh, her words not quite reaching Lexa. 

And so Clarke sighs once more before she stands and steps around the couch Lexa sits in. And Clarke finds herself just slightly unsure of her actions, but she knows she sees the tension in Lexa’s shoulders, in the stiffness of her neck, and so she reaches out tentatively, fingers brushing Lexa’s hair from her shoulders. 

And Lexa stiffens even further at the action, Clarke’s name falling from her lips, but Clarke ignores it, her fingers slowly gripping Lexa’s shoulders before she squeezes slightly, the pressure enough that she feels the coils and knots in Lexa’s muscles. 

“Everything’s going to be ok, Lexa,” Clarke whispers as she begins to knead at the knots she finds. And Clarke feels the smile spread more freely as Lexa whimpers quietly, as her shoulders begin to relax and as she leans further into Clarke’s touch. “Whatever happens,” and Lexa breathes in sharply as Clarke’s fingers dig into a muscle on the side of her neck carefully, “we’ll be ok.”

And Lexa hums a response, and Clarke finds that she can’t quite help but to kneel behind Lexa, to lean forward and brush her lips against the back of Lexa’s head, her fingers slowing in their ministrations as she brings feather touches against the rushing pulse she feels in the side of Lexa’s neck.

“Nia will want to use you somehow, Clarke,” Lexa says quietly, her words less tense and frayed now.

“She’s wanted to use me forever,” Clarke shrugs, her arms slowly coming to wrap themselves around Lexa from behind. “She wanted me to steal the Mountain, and now she wants me to use you,” and Clarke thinks she can even feel the eye roll Lexa lets loose.

“It is dangerous, Clarke,” Lexa repeats from earlier, but Clarke knows the words not be to a reprimand or a rebuttal of what they share. Not fully at least. 

“It was always dangerous,” Clarke says with a smile, her words more quiet now as her breath ghosts against Lexa’s neck.

“I must share this with Titus,” Lexa says tiredly.

“I hope not,” Clarke says as she pulls her head away from Lexa’s shoulder. “I don’t know how I feel about him giving you massages,” she jokes.

“That is not what I meant,” Lexa says, a hint of exasperation colouring her voice.

“I know,” and Clarke smiles into Lexa’s shoulder once more. “I was only teasing,” and Clarke pretends not to feel the prickling of Lexa’s skin and the quickening of her pulse as her lips brush against the side of her neck. “He’ll like me less after this news,” she finishes. 

“What Titus likes is not important,” Lexa answers.

“Maybe that’s why he’s bald,” Clarke whispers, lips brushing against Lexa’s ear. “Too much worrying.”

“I would prefer it, Clarke,” and Lexa’s voice falters for a moment as Clarke lets her hand begin to wander slowly. “That you not speak of Titus when y—”

“Shhh,” and Clarke smiles as she feels Lexa swallow nervously as she places a kiss against the side of Lexa’s jaw. “No more talking.”

 

* * *

The doors to the elevator open smoothly, and so Clarke steps out, eyes scanning down the hallway only briefly before she begins to move towards the large doors, Torvun ever present by her side as they pass a servant who bows her head. Clarke comes to a stop at the doors, two guards bowing their heads as they pull them open before beckoning her forward. And so Clarke steps through the threshold, eyes quickly finding a place set for her where the others of the Azgeda delegation sit, most other clan’s ambassadors and representatives already seated, some yet to arrive. 

“Clarke,” Kane smiles warmly at her as she passes the Skaikru gathered, and so Clarke smiles back before her gaze meets Lexa’s for only a moment before the green eyes shift to a Glowing Forest warrior Clarke recalls from the Mountain’s fall. 

“Progress continues without trouble, Heda,” the woman continues, “with the Mountain able to provide other resources our warriors can concentrate on finishing it before winter has fully returned,” she finishes.

“Broadleaf is sending supplies, Heda,” a man says in answer, a gruffness to his words that echoes throughout the large room. 

“And Trikru,” the Trikru ambassador from earlier nods his head. “Once the path is finished all forest clans will benefit.”

“Good,” and Lexa shifts her attention to the other clans. “Rock Line will continue to supply Shallow Valley until it is finished,” and Lexa pins a woman with an even stare. “You will be reimbursed once the path is completed.”

“Yes, Heda,” the woman says, only a slight hint of annoyance finding its way into the bowing of her head.

“Heda,” and Lexa’s head turns to meet the Blue Cliff ambassador who raises a hand. “With the losses we suffered at the Mountain, we have more meats stored than would feed mouths,” and Clarke sees him flinch with his words slightly, the good news sullied by the deaths Blue Cliff has suffered. “We would be willing to help Shallow Valley if we are permitted first pick of the crops next season,” he finishes.

And so Lexa looks around at those gathered for a moment. “Lake Clan is absent,” she says. “So, too is Desert, they forfeit their right to objection. Are there any clans that wish to voice objections?” and as the ambassadors share glances briefly Clarke sees some nod their acceptance of the ruling, other’s remaining quiet as they consider the options. 

“The Mountain has provided the nearest clans with more food, too, Heda,” the Trikru ambassador says before glancing once to the Broadleaf and Glowing Forest delegations. “The forest clans do not object to this ruling.” 

And so Lexa nods once, eyebrow raising as she meets the gazes of the other Clans once before settling upon Nia’s. “Are there any other objections?” 

“None, Commander,” Nia says easily. 

“Good,” and Lexa nods to the Blue Cliff ambassador once more.

Clarke’s head turns at the sound of the doors opening to see the Desert and Lake Clan delegation enter, chest heaving slightly as they take their places before Lexa.

“Apologies, Heda,” a dark skinned woman says, hand swiping at a strand of hair. “We did not realise the elevator had been fixed so quickly,” and she bows her head once before settling more comfortably into her chair.

“Now that we are all here,” and Lexa’s head inclines towards the Skaikru that sit close by the Trikru delegation, “we will discuss what Skaikru can do for the coalition,” and Lexa nods her head once as Kane stands, already beginning to introduce the Skaikru with him before gesturing to Raven who carefully empties a bag on the ground full of tech.

 

* * *

The morning meeting flows easily, topics of conversation often switching from Skaikru’s abilities, and how they help the coalition, to some clans less familiar with them voicing doubts and concerns over the use of tech, but as Clarke listens she can’t help but to feel a slight sense of boredom, the long discussions and her less important role in them not quite giving her mind enough stimulation. She finds herself eyeing Lexa and the way she sits in her throne, the rising sun that streams through the sheer fabric behind her almost swallowing her in a bright glow. But as Clarke tries to catch Lexa’s gaze she finds the woman too focused on what Raven says as she once more explains the benefits of radios and solar power to the Desert clan ambassador, his lands an obvious choice to trial the tech.

Clarke watches as Raven smiles once more before holding up a small solar panel, eyes catching Clarke’s only briefly as they both recall the small tech Raven had stolen for her. Clarke sees the Desert clan’s ambassador’s eyes widen as Raven holds the solar panel into a ray of sun, the battery indicator on it beginning to flash briefly as the stronger rays begin to charge it. 

“—and now all you have to do is keep it here and then you’ve got power,” Raven finishes with a smile.

Clarke’s ears pick up the rapid thumping of feet against stone, and she senses the other guards present who turn to the sounds, even Nia tenses subtly as she hears the noises. Lexa’s eyes snap to the door too. And the doors open with a quick snap, and Clarke eyes the breathless guard who doubles over, her breaths coming frantic.

“Forgive the intrusion, Heda,” the guard wheezes as she comes to stand, hair clinging to her forehead, and as the guard pauses for just a moment, Clarke thinks she feels Lexa’s tension return tenfold, and maybe it’s her imagination, but she thinks she hears a quiet chuckle escape Nia’s lips. “There has been an attack on Ton DC.”

“The Mountain Men,” Lexa hisses, her eyes snapping to Nia’s for a second before turning to face the Trikru ambassador and Anya who now stands, fist closed around her knife in anger. “How many are dead,” Lexa seethes.

“There are many wounded, Heda,” the warrior says nervously. “I do not know how many have died,” and Clarke senses a _but_ that is soon to come, and she knows Lexa does too from the way she sits forward in her chair. “The prisoner has escaped,” the guard finishes.

“This is an outrage,” Nia snarls, her finger jabbing towards the Trikru delegation as she stands, eyes angry, lips curling into a snarl. “You let the last of the Mountain Men roam freely in your lands? How were they not seen? How were they not discovered so deep into Trikru territory?” 

“They attack Azgeda as much as Trikru,” Anya spits as she takes a step forward. “What have you done?” she sneers, eyes only briefly eyeing Teril who steps forward with Nia’s movements.

“What have Azgeda done?” and Nia sweeps her hands out. “Azgeda hunts them, Azgeda guards the Mountain, Azgeda guards Skaikru and Azgeda sends its most fierce warriors — Wanheda included — to the capital to show Azgeda commitment to destroying the Mountain Men,” and she leans forward. “All Trikru have done is die,” Nia says and Anya steps forward once more, fist clenching more tightly around her knife.

“You are equally at fault,” Anya says as she jabs her finger towards Nia. “Even Azgeda has failed to stop the Mountain Men from escaping over the border. Trikru does not hold all the blame,” she finishes with a snarl.

“Then Azgeda will hunt the Mountain Men,” Nia says as she eyes the other members of the Coalition that sit around her. “Azgeda will send its warriors to find the ones responsible,” and Nia gestures around her once more as she holds the attention of the other ambassadors. “If Trikru will do nothing but falsely accuse Azgeda of doing nothing, then Azgeda will bleed for the Coalition. Azgeda will hunt the Mountain Men.”

“And who will you send, Kwin Nia?” the Rock Line ambassador asks, gaze moving from person to person amongst the Azgeda delegation before settling on Nia once more.

And so Nia smiles before turning to face Clarke.

“Wanheda.”


	12. Chapter 12

Clarke paces back and forth, her eyes peering down at her feet and the cracks she sees slither through the stone underfoot.

“How are you not freaking out about this?” Clarke hisses, eyes only holding Lexa’s for a short moment before she looks up into a burning candle overhead. “He’s free, he knows more about Arkadia and its defences and even the Mountain,” and Clarke kicks angrily at a fur rug she passes, Lexa’s eyebrow rising slightly at her outburst. “Nia holds all the cards, Lexa, we need to do something, can’t you make her do something? Anything?” and Clarke feels her nails bite into her palm.

“I expected her to make an attempt to free the prisoner,” Lexa says evenly, eyes still following Clarke’s movements through her room.

“So you let it happen?” and Clarke turns to face her, disbelief colouring her tone. “What’s the benefit in that?” 

“He is working for me.”

“That’s not the point, Lexa,” Clarke growls. “What’s the bene— What?”

“Thelonious is working for me,” and Lexa sighs evenly as she continues to watch Clarke.

“Explain.”

“All other prisoners are held at Arkadia or in the Mountain,” and Lexa shrugs. “Did you not think about why he alone was kept at Ton DC?”

“I thought it was because Trikru wanted their own vengeance because he was the leader,” Clarke answers. 

“Yes,” and Lexa smiles grimly. “I believe Nia thinks the same.”

“How’d you get him to work for you? What’s he even going to do?”

“He will provide the evidence we need to accuse Nia of working with the Mountain Men,” Lexa says simply. 

“How?” and Clarke worries her lip as she continues to eye Lexa in her casualness. 

“He will leave a trail for us to follow so that we can find where the Mountain Men hide,” Lexa shrugs.

“So again, How are you not freaking out about this, Lexa,” and Clarke’s eyes narrow as she steps forward. “You’ve done something,” she says. 

And she feels her heart clench as Lexa looks away subtly, as she clenches her jaw and as she eyes a space over Clarke’s shoulder.

“I threatened him,” Lexa says as she meets Clarke’s gaze, her eyes hardening as her chin lifts. 

“How?”

“I told him I would have his son killed if he did not cooperate,” and Clarke feels the strain and tension in the back of her mind increase further.

“That’s not happening,” and Clarke takes a deep breath. 

“I do not make idle threats, Clarke,” Lexa says as she clasps her hands behind her back.

“No,” and Clarke steps forward angrily, her finger jabbing Lexa in the shoulder. “You don’t get to decide who lives and dies. Especially someone from Skaikru.”

“I am the Commander,” Lexa hisses as she steps closer to Clarke, and not for the first time, Clarke finds herself resenting the fact that Lexa stands slightly taller than her. 

“You can’t just kill someone because you want to,” Clarke argues.

“Yes,” and Lexa’s chin lifts even further. “I can.”

“No. You can’t. I won’t let you,” Clarke says.

“You will not let me?” and Lexa’s eyes roll.

“Don’t you roll your eyes at me,” Clarke says as she pokes Lexa once more. “I w—”

“Heda,” and Clarke’s head turns to the door at Anya’s voice. “We are ready to leave,” the voice calls from the other side of the door.

“Anya’s coming?” and Clarke turns to meet Lexa’s gaze once more.

“Yes,” Lexa says cautiously. “Trikru will accompany you on this mission.”

And so Clarke takes a step back, eyes closing as she takes a deep breath to steady her beating heart. 

“This conversation isn’t finished,” Clarke says as her eyes open. “Wells better not have a scratch on him when I come back,” and Clarke sees the small worry that lingers in Lexa’s eyes. 

“Thelonious will not jeopardise his son’s life,” Lexa says more softly now. “I am sure of it.”

“I’m still mad at you,” Clarke says as she begins walking to the door, hands tugging her furs closer around herself as she reaches for door knob.

 

* * *

The wind feels much colder now, even after only a short time, the winter season has truly begun to settle over the lands. Clarke’s eyes scan the trees constantly, despite the distance they still have to travel to Ton DC to find the trail of the Mountain Men who fled. She hears Raven’s quiet chatter from behind, Skaikru having volunteered to help rebuild Ton DC to show the other clans that they could provide more than just knowledge. 

“You are angry, Clarke,” and she turns to meet Ontari’s gaze as she rides besides her.

“Yeah,” Clarke shrugs, “it’s complicated,” she finishes.

“Do you wish to discuss it?” Ontari says more softly, eyes flashing to a Trikru warrior who rides close by.

“No,” and Clarke smiles more gently as she meets Ontari’s gaze once more. “It’s ok.”

And so Ontari’s foot nudges Clarke’s, and they share another quiet smile before their eyes turn back into the trees, the sounds of Polis long since lost to the trees and the forests.

 

* * *

“So, how long do you think this is all going to take?” Raven asks, her eyes squinting up into the setting sun.

“As long as it takes,” Clarke answers from where she rides at the head of the small war party of Azgeda, Trikru and the few Skaikru.

“Real helpful, Clarke,” Raven says. 

“It’s another day to Ton DC at this pace, and from there we’ll pick up the trail and track them to wherever they’re hiding,” Clarke finishes with a smile. 

“You think we’ll find them?” Raven says.

“Yeah,” and Clarke shrugs once. “I’ve got a feeling we’ll find them.” 

 

* * *

Her eyes move from tree trunk to tree trunk, the air hisses through the branches overhead and her ears pick up the slight sounds of what she hunts. Her hand rises slowly, fist closed, and she turns to Ontari and Torvun who stalk quietly behind her, Entani already slinking off into the trees to the left to flank their prey. 

She hears a low whistle then, and her gaze moves up into the trees as she sees a shadow slip forward with the swaying of a large branch.

“I hope she falls,” Ontari whispers, her own eyes following the movement overhead.

“Shhh,” and Clarke pokes Ontari in the ribs briefly as she begins moving forward once more.

They hear another low bird call again, the sound coming from their left and so Clarke pauses once more until she hears it again, this time further away, lower and more careful.

“Entani has found it,” Ontari whispers, her bow slowly being drawn back as she begins moving to the left, Clarke’s own bow creaking in her hands, Torvun following behind them quietly, his gaze ever constant as he eyes the trees that rise up into the skies.

Clarke slinks forward carefully, hand lifting a low branch before she comes to an even crouch, her eyes trained on the deer that grazes across a clearing. Ontari pauses by her side, her bow already being drawn and so Clarke draws her own, too, and as she sights down the arrow’s shaft she lets her breaths still and her heart slow.

She waits for only a moment longer, long enough for a hoot to echo out through the clearing once more and then she releases. Clarke’s arrow snaps forward, but she watches as it clips a small branch that bends in the breeze and she curses quietly as her arrow slips left and disappears into the trees. 

But as her curse falls from her lips she sees another arrow flash forward from above, and she watches as the deer’s head looks up at the sounds, its body tensing for only a split second before the second arrow hits home, the arrowhead piercing the deer’s side causing it to wobble and collapse to the ground with a pained grunt that tapers off into a quiet wheeze for just a beat of time before silencing for good. 

“You missed,” Ontari says with a smirk as she rises, eyes peering up into the trees briefly before stepping forward, hand waving to Entani who also rises from the bushes opposite them.

Clarke sighs once as she watches Anya drop from the trees, bow slung over her shoulder, her eyes peering at the now dead deer as she begins to unwind rope from around her waist and bind the animal’s legs.

 

* * *

It’s late, or perhaps early, and as Clarke’s eyes crack open she finds the cold has settled more fully over the lands. She sits carefully, Ontari’s arm sliding off from her hip as she slips from the furs and pads her way over to the small table in the corner of the tent where her clothes lie.

It only takes her a moment to dress and slip out of the tent with a glance over her shoulder to find Ontari rolling into the warmth her body has left behind. Clarke dresses quickly, and as she exits the tent Torvun wakes easily, eyes openly to the sounds she makes and so he rises, eyes scanning around him as a thumb brushes against the handle of his knife. As their eyes meet Clarke thinks she feels a stab of regret that Torvun has grown accustomed to her sleepless nights, but as he smiles slightly at her she thinks he doesn’t mind. Not fully, at least. But she thinks she senses the quiet worry behind his gaze as his eyes fall onto the shadows she thinks bruise under her own eyes. 

It doesn’t take them long to reach the edges of the small war camp, the Azgeda woman who keeps watch nodding to them both before slipping from the shadows and making her way back to the camp, the few hours left of sleep a welcome for her tired mind.

Clarke eyes the tree before her for only a moment as she considers which branch to take and then she jumps, hands wrapping around the rough bark, the roughness of it biting into her palm as she pulls herself up. She hooks a leg on it as she swings herself up until she comes to straddle the wide branch, legs on either side and her back resting against the thick trunk. Torvun scales it more easily, his height and strength allowing him to pull himself up without needing to jump so forcefully.

“Perhaps you should have Anya train you in how to move in the trees,” he says quietly as he settles himself on his own branch.

But Clarke snorts at his words, her head turning to meet him for a moment to see mirth living in his eyes, “I think she’d prefer to push me out of one,” she says quietly.

“Perhaps,” Torvun shrugs, fingers scratching at his beard once. “Or perhaps she would not.”

“Maybe,” Clarke answers.

They fall quiet then, and Clarke finds herself peering up into the slight traces of the sky overhead, her ears still tuned to the sounds of the rustling of leaves, but she thinks attack is not so likely on an Azgeda force and so she lets her eyes trace the clouds that float by, the stars that still shine deeply and the rich depths of the nothing of space. 

But she hears it. It’s a prominent snapping of a stick that draws her eyes down to the ground, and she feels Torvun tensing too. She sees a lone figure begin to bleed out from behind a tree and she recognises the dirty blonde tips of Anya’s hair and the way she walks slightly stooped as she stalks forward carefully. 

“You do not hide yourselves well in the trees,” Anya says as she comes to a stop at the base of the tree they keep watch in.

“What do you want, Anya?” Clarke says quietly, ever conscious of the wind carrying her voice. 

“You are aware of the prisoner?” Anya says in answer as she comes to lean against the tree, her own gaze turned outwards and into the forest.

“I know Lexa made him agree to help,” Clarke says, and she doesn’t miss the quiet sigh Torvun lets loose at the revelation.

“Scouts believe they have found his trail,” Anya says, “at daybreak we will leave for Ton DC and resupply before we follow it,” and she peers up at Clarke briefly. “He is a priority,” she finishes.

“Yeah,” and Clarke shrugs an answer as she thinks of what will soon happen. “How is Ton DC?” she asks after a moment’s pause.

“There are dead and injured,” Anya says tightly. “The Mountain Men were able to sneak in at night and use tech to cause chaos.” 

“Why hasn’t Lexa done anything else?” Clarke asks, her eyes tracing the braids through Anya’s hair. “Other than threaten Thelonious, all she’s done is let Nia make moves.”

“She does not have many options,” Anya says in answer. “She can not accuse Nia or make a move on her without proof, you know that. To do either without evidence of Nia’s involvement with the Mountain Men would make her look weak in front of the clans,” and Anya sighs once. 

“But—”

“You accuse Lexa of not doing enough,” Anya interrupts, “yet you refuse to consider her own plan,” and Anya looks up once more. “Lexa can not remove Nia from power without evidence or she must defeat whatever challenge Nia issues. But you can do both,” Anya says stiffly. “You forget that Lexa wishes for you to challenge Nia, for you to take the throne, for you to end this without further bloodshed.”

“B—”

“There are no buts, Clarke,” Anya interrupts once more. “Roan has been eliminated. He is either dead, rotting in a prison or he has fled and is in hiding. Who else could challenge Nia to the throne without causing chaos with Azgeda other than you?” and Anya looks pointedly at her. “So yes. For now all Lexa will do is protect Arkadia with Trikru warriors. She will keep the Mountain safe from Nia’s attacks, and she will use the prisoner to gain evidence that Nia works with the Mountain Men. And she will wait. Nia will make her move, and Lexa will counter it.”

“We don’t even know what Nia’s going to do, though,” Clarke counters.

Anya sighs, an exasperation colouring the sound as it reaches Clarke’s ears. 

“She will either attack Skaikru, and in that case the Trikru warriors there will defend. She will attack the Mountain, and in that case the clans there will defend it. Or she will issue the challenge, and in that case Lexa will defeat whichever champion Nia uses,” and Anya pushes off from the tree. “Or bloodshed can be avoided by you challenging Nia to the throne,” Anya finishes as she begins walking away. 

 

* * *

They arrive at Ton DC late the next day, the sun already dipping below the horizon once more. It surprises Clarke that she finds the scent of blood still lingers in the air, the smoke of charred buildings ever present and the blackened tar underfoot a crunch that brings memories to the forefront of her mind. Indra walks up to the war party as they dismount from their horses, a gash on her forehead.

“Anya,” she says with a nod.

“Indra,” Anya replies, hand reaching out to grasp Indra’s forearm for a moment before they begin walking through the main gates of Ton DC.

Clarke turns at Raven’s name being called to find a number of unfamiliar Skaikru already milling about, large bags at their feet, tools and other equipment Clarke can’t name cradled in arms. 

“We came to help,” a man says as he meets Clarke’s inquisitive gaze as he strides up to Raven. 

“How bad is it, Sinclair?” and Raven eyes the blackened face of a building.

“Some of the reconstruction got damaged, but it’s mostly just surface damage, nothing serious,” he says. 

And so Clarke turns her attention back to the Azgeda who mill about, and she finds Jenma, the fiery haired northern Azgeda warrior kicking at a broken piece of metal that rolls on the ground and bounces against a rock. 

“Their trail went north,” and Clarke turns to see Octavia striding towards her, Lincoln in tow.

“Hey, O,” Clarke smiles in answer, her gaze taking in a slowly healing cut on the woman’s chin. “From the attack?”

“Yeah,” and Octavia shrugs as she gestures around herself. “Everyone got hit.”

“I’m sorry,” Clarke says, and as she eyes the burning husk of a tree that must have been caught in the attack, she can’t help but recoil from the memories of the missile that had struck Ton DC only months prior.

“It is what it is,” Octavia says, but Clarke thinks she can sense the fire burning in the young woman’s mind. “We’ll find them tomorrow.”

 

* * *

Clarke finds herself, the Skaikru and a few other Azgeda in the main building that had been used during the siege of the Mountain, the large table ever present, the map still covering it. Indra stands on one side, Anya next to her as both women trace the rivers and paths drawn into the map.

“They went north,” Indra says into the silence, eyes only once meeting Clarke’s before moving on to the other Azgeda before her. 

“What tech did they use?” Clarke asks as she eyes a small figure that marks the direction Indra thinks the attackers went.

“Explosives, grenades, stuff like that,” Octavia answers. “They hit us in the night, don’t even ask how they got so close without being seen. I couldn’t even tell you.” 

“And that’s when they rescued Jaha?” Clarke asks. 

“Yeah,” Octavia answers and Clarke sees Indra’s eyes flash at the man’s mention. “In the confusion someone must have snuck through,” Octavia finishes.

Clarke’s eyes meet Anya’s own gaze for a moment, and she doesn’t miss the flash of a warning to remain silent about Jaha’s reluctant help, but Ontari clears her throat briefly, gaze only sparing Octavia a second’s notice before she slips her knife out from its sheath and points to a small ravine marked on the map.

“They head here,” she begins. “This is the last of the neutral ground before they enter Azgeda lands.”

“You’re sure of it?” Clarke asks as she follows the small trail that winds through the trees before bleeding into the rocky outcrops that often separate Trikru and Azgeda lands.

“Where else would they go?” Ontari shrugs. “They can not move west or it would lead them to Polis, and they are not so foolish as to attack there. They can not double back or they will be forced to face us. Perhaps they head east, to Skaikru, but Azgeda is there and will defeat them,” and Ontari lets a small smirk lift her lips as she meets Anya’s quiet glare. 

“So what’s the plan, Clarke?” Octavia says quickly.

“We hunt them,” Clarke shrugs in answer. “They’ve become desperate to attack so deep into Trikru lands, or they’ve become too bold,” and she looks up at the people that stand around the table. “This is the most daring they’ve been since the Mountain fell,” and Clarke worries her lip, thoughts turning to how to explain the Mountain’s actions. “The only reason their tracks are still visible is because they’re so deep into Trikru lands. They haven’t had the time to hide them without being caught,” and as she sees a few of the Azgeda warriors that stand around her nod she feels herself content with the explanation for what she thinks is Nia’s trickery. “And we’re here,” and Clarke gestures to the Azgeda, “because we can’t let them be more bold than they’ve already become. We need to end this now before more blood is spilt,” and Clarke doesn’t miss the subtle rolling of Anya’s eyes as the last of her words echo out around them.

“So we find them, we kill them?” Octavia asks, her gaze turning to Indra who remains quiet for the moment.

“Yeah, but we’ve got to be careful,” Clarke answers. “There can’t be more than fifty of them, but we don’t know how many weapons they have with them.”

“Why hasn’t the Commander sent more?” Raven asks as she eyes the Azgeda and Trikru warriors.

“It’s an Azgeda and Trikru matter,” Clarke says in answer. “No other clans have been attacked yet, so it’s our responsibility,” and she sees Anya nod slightly, her avoidance of the plans in motion appreciated.

“You can’t call for help?” Raven asks.

“We do not ask for help, sky girl,” Ontari snaps.

“Yeah, firstly, it’s Raven. And secondly, I’m pretty sure I’m older than you, ice girl,” Raven retorts. “What are you, sixteen?” 

“Ok,” Clarke says, hand gripping Ontari’s wrist quickly as the other woman begins to move forward. “We’re all on the same side at the moment,” and she pins Raven with a stern look. “Let’s all just get along until this issue’s dealt with.”

 

* * *

It must be close to daybreak and Clarke’s eyes follow the glint of her knife in the candle light, the flickering of the flame enough to give sight to her task. Her ears listen to the sounds of the whetstone as she runs it against her knife’s edge that tapers into a harsh point. Clarke looks up from the blade at the sounds of Ontari waking with a quiet grumble.

“You think we will find them today?” Ontari asks tiredly as their eyes meet and as Clarke brings the whetstone down the edge of her blade once more.

“I have a feeling,” Clarke says, her gaze falling to the furs that bundle around Ontari’s waist as she sits in the small bed they share.

“Entani is still on watch?” Ontari asks as she looks over her shoulder, gaze falling to the empty space besides her.

“Yeah,” and Clarke shrugs, in the candle light, “she said her watch ends at daybreak,” she finishes.

And so Ontari stifles a yawn as she slips from the furs, her skin prickling to the cold that creeps through their tent, and Clarke’s eyes trace the goosebumps that sprinkle over her skin slightly, the light scars that litter her body, that slice through muscle and flesh and skin.

“I am enjoying the cold,” Ontari says as she pads her way over to the table, hands already rifling through their bundled furs and leathers. “I hope we are returned to Azgeda soon,” Ontari says with a sigh.

“Yeah,” and Clarke shrugs once more, “it’ll be nice,” and Clarke stands, her sleep shorts and chest binding all she wears as she comes to a rest besides Ontari. “How’s your shoulder?”

“It is fine,” Ontari answers easily, but Clarke thinks Ontari too stubborn still. “I am doing the exercises,” she says quickly, already anticipating Clarke’s reprimand.

“And it doesn’t hurt?” Clarke questions as she takes a fresh chest binding from Ontari.

“Perhaps a little,” and Ontari shrugs as she begins to strip, the flickering of a candle light curving across her body.

“How’d this happen?” Clarke asks as she eyes a fresh cut across Ontari’s back, the wound long, but she thinks not deep.

“Teril,” Ontari sighs as she tries to peer over her shoulder and at her back. “It does not hurt.”

“You didn’t even get it looked at, did you?” Clarke says lightly, her feet taking her to stand behind Ontari who brings small shorts up her legs.

“I cleaned it,” Ontari says with a grunt, Clarke prodding her sternly in the lower back.

And so Clarke sighs before turning to her healer’s pack that rests on the far edge of the small table. 

“Sit down, Ontari,” she says, hand taking Ontari by the upper arm as she moves her to the chair she had been sitting in moments ago.

Ontari submits with a quiet groan of annoyance, hands sweeping her hair over her shoulder, fingers carding through her brown locks as she anticipates Clarke’s inspection.

“You’re either the luckiest person ever, or your immune system is amazing,” Clarke says as she inspects the wound, the flesh along the edges of the cut only slightly reddened and inflamed.

“I do not know what an _emoon sistam_ is,” Ontari grunts out, and Clarke is sure the woman rolls her eyes at the laugh she finds escaping her lips at Ontari’s poorly pronounced words.

“It’s the only thing keeping you from dying,” Clarke sighs, fingers already popping open a jar of paste, the grey-blue paste an odd smelling thing that brings memories of wounded warriors and long nights to the forefront of her mind. “You don’t need stitches, but don’t move for a bit,” Clarke says, fingers dipping into it as she prepares to smear it across Ontari’s wound.

The women fall into a comfortable silence, Clarke’s fingers gently applying the paste across the wound that slices down Ontari’s back, and as Clarke’s fingers brush against the deep bullet scar that mars Ontari’s shoulder, she finds herself thinking of the years Ontari must have suffered, the youth she must have lived to have familiarised her with such a harsh life.

“Do you ever worry about it?” Clarke finds herself asking, her thoughts not quite sure how best to voice what she sees etched into Ontari’s flesh.

“Death?” and Clarke knows Ontari can sense her gaze upon the scar.

“Yeah,” and Clarke’s brows quirk slightly as she begins to smear the last of the paste against the wound.

“No,” Ontari shrugs slightly, fingers now braiding her hair. “I do not,” and she pauses for a moment in thought, and Clarke thinks she can imagine the quirking of Ontari’s lips. “We are warriors, Clarke,” and she looks over her shoulder at Clarke. “Do you worry about not being able to save a wounded warrior when you are trying to save their life, or do you focus on doing what you can?”

“Yeah,” and Clarke knows what Ontari says makes sense, and as her voice tapers off slightly, she finds herself unsure if she should voice what she plans, the things she has put into motion, the things she waits for to happen. “It’d be nice if the Coalition was stable though, wouldn’t it?” and she sees Ontari’s head tilt to the side. “It would, wouldn’t it? Not having to worry about when the next war or battle is going to happen?”

“I do not worry about things I can not change,” Ontari sighs more quietly. “I am a warrior. I fight when I am told to,” and Clarke thinks Ontari’s words easy and simple to understand, despite the macabre nature of the discussion.

“But if things were safer? Less violent?” Clarke finds herself pushing.

“I have not thought much of life other than what I have lived,” Ontari answers. “We survive knowing that our fight may end one day,” and Ontari shivers slightly as Clarke begins laying a cool cloth against the wound on her back. “If it is to end today, tomorrow, or many seasons from now, it will end when it ends.”

 

* * *

Clarke’s ears pick up the slightest of noises, the breathing of the forest and the chirping of a bird. She hears the quiet breath that escapes her lips and the slight rustle of a branch that shifts in the wind. The Trikru scout raises a hand slowly, his eyes trained out in front of him. Clarke feels the shifting in the forest though, the land slowly beginning to turn into rock and soon to be ice and snow underfoot. 

The shadows now stretch out before her, the sun only just starting its descent in the sky, but as she waits, as she peers out past where she hides, she thinks she feels it. The scout’s fingers spread slowly, his index finger crooking before he lowers his hand in a steep arc. 

_Enemy._

Clarke turns behind her to eye the Azgeda who gather out behind where she hides, their faces a deathly black, the usual whites replaced with the black that signals a hunt. Her own hand flicks up slowly to the left, and as she barely finishes the movement Jenma nods once to her before breaking off from the main group, a number of Azgeda warriors falling behind her as they disappear into the trees.

Clarke brings her hand behind her head, fingers grasping at the skull that rests against her neck, and as she slips it over her head and as it settles against her face, she lets a smile linger in her eyes and against her lips. Ontari eases into position besides her, Entani’s gaze turned behind them and Torvun ever present by her side. 

There’s a slight snap that comes next and the warriors still. Clarke’s eyes turn back to the scout and she sees his hand held behind his back for them to see, his fingers quirking and lifting quickly as he balances on the branch he is perched in. 

Anya meets her eyes only once before she nods and begins to fade into the trees, the other Trikru with her, Octavia and Lincoln included, morphing into the undergrowth and retreating further back into the forest, their task to cut off any attempt at escaping back through Trikru lands. 

“Remember,” Clarke breaths out, and she knows the Azgeda who all huddle within breathing distance can hear her. “We capture one or two if we can, we kill them if we can’t. And if it looks like they’re going to run, send them back into Trikru lands. We don’t want to try tracking them through the mountains,” and she sees a few Azgeda familiar with the terrain in this area nod, their own experiences of hunting in the rocks a dangerous, futile task.

And so she creeps forward as the Trikru scout turns and slips from the tree quietly, his eyes meeting Clarke’s for only a moment as he nods before he, too, slips back to where Anya and the rest of the Trikru wait.

Clarke waits for another long moment, and she thinks it must be an age, her fingers slowly beginning to cramp around the bow in her hands. But as she flexes her fingers and rolls her shoulders she hears it. She hears the careful steps of a nervous person and the very slight clinking of metal against metal. The Azgeda with her hear it too and they silence, some lower themselves to the ground and others slowly tighten their grip around spear shafts and sword hilts.

Clarke thinks she senses it before she sees it, but she sees a figure bleed out from behind a rocky outcrop of waning trees and broken branches. She eyes the man for only a moment before recognition dawns on her. His skin appears more weathered now, the hair on his head scraggy, unkempt, his beard more wild than she has ever seen. But she knows him to be healthy, his arms thick and corded and his chest barrelled and familiar to the harshness of the ground. He holds a rifle too, his gaze constantly tracking back and forth as he slips from tree trunk to tree trunk, from rock to boulder. 

And so she turns quietly to face the Azgeda behind her, their nods all she needs before she turns back to eye Pike as he pauses, a hand slowly coming up to signal whoever it is that he scouts for. 

Clarke breaths in once, her fingers finding an arrow that she knocks to her bow with a practiced ease and then she begins to rise slowly, the arrow being drawn as she sights down the shaft. Fingers brush against the white feathers and she feels the beating of her heart begin to slow. She feels the other archers begin drawing their own bows, she feels them begin to rise slowly and she feels the disciplined eagerness in their motions.

And so she smiles just once. 

But she hears it. She hears a quiet click, something not quite from the creaking of bows and the clinking of metal sword against armoured torso. And she knows. The moment must only last a second, a breath, a tick in time. But she knows the click for what it must be and so Clarke’s head turns to her left, she eyes the warrior whose own face turns confused for only a moment before recognition dawns on a weathered face, followed by horror, panic, acceptance, anger and fury.

And in the time it takes for Clarke to register the cause of the sound, the warrior screams out a warning, the warrior drops her body onto the ground and the warrior absorbs the impact of the mine as it explodes and rips her to pieces.

And as Clarke feels the air smash from her lungs, as she feels her feet lift off the ground and as she sees shrapnel rip into the Azgeda warriors around her, the last thing she sees before consciousness is beaten from her mind is Torvun’s torso shielding her from the blast, Ontari’s bloodied face that contorts in pain and Entani’s body as it flies through the air.


	13. Chapter 13

Clarke’s thoughts shift listlessly, her mind restless, senseless and lost in the haze of pain that throbs through her head. It takes her long seconds of pained whimpering to realise she can’t see, that her vision is darkened and blurred. It takes her too many shallow, broken breaths to realise her hands are tied behind her back and her face is pressed into the harsh bite of ice rock. It only takes another pained moment before her memories return, and as flashes of the explosion pass through her mind, as images of blood and bodies and limbs bubble to the surface she knows she feels the wet trail of a tear that slips from her eye and drips down her cheek cruelly.

A cough passes her lips then, her throat dry and her lips cracked and broken. She feels whatever it is that covers her eyes slip sightly, enough for the dark to turn to a slight haze, and as she tries to sit she feels a press of a body besides her and the quieting of breaths and the approach of feet.

“Don’t move,” comes the voice, and it comes guarded, careful and wary.

“Pike,” Clarke coughs roughly, surprise flitting through her mind that she remembers her former Earth Skills teacher.

She feels him approach, she hears the crunch of his boots and she feels the body besides her stiffen at his approach.

“I’m surprised you remember me,” he says easily, and she senses him crouch down in front of her, his voice not far from her face, the baritone of it rumbling quietly in his chest. 

“What do you want?” Clarke says with a wince, her shoulder protesting the shifting of her body as she tries to more fully turn to where she thinks he crouches.

“That’s not important,” Pike answers, and Clarke stiffens as she feels rough fingers grip the back of her head forcefully before the blindfold is lifted from her eyes.

And Clarke comes face to face with the man, his skin dark, muddied from days of travel, his eyes weary and his beard unkempt, but she sees the traces of life, determination and a quietly burning resolve. Her gaze peers over his shoulder quickly to find that it nears nightfall, stars already beginning to shine dully in the sky. A fire burns behind Pike, too, the flame flickering and dancing in a slight breeze. It only takes another second before her eyes land on Torvun’s body, his arms behind his back, and large ropes wrapping his body taut, a gag in his mouth and another blindfold over his eyes. 

“We don’t take risks,” Pike says, his own eyes following Clarke’s. “He took a hell of a beating,” Pike continues, “took the blast for you,” and he shrugs, and as Pike turns back to her, Clarke finds a slow drip of blood seems to pool underneath Torvun’s body, blood caking his hands and cheeks. “I think he’ll live,” Pike says as he eyes her for a moment.

“Where is everyone else,” Clarke whispers, her gaze only now registering that she finds herself alone, Ontari and Entani both nowhere to be found.

“We’re separating the dead from the wounded,” Pike shrugs. “We aren’t savages,” and his head cocks to the side. “A lot are missing limbs,” and he smiles sadly. 

“What do you want?” Clarke whispers once more, her eyes beginning to burn from the smell and stench of burnt flesh she only now registers clings to her furs and leathers. 

“You destroyed what we wanted months ago, Clarke,” Pike says. “We wanted to live in the Mountain,” and he gestures to her face once. “But I guess that wasn’t good enough for you,” and Pike turns thoughtful for a moment, a hand coming to scratch at the short hair on his head. “I know what you’re going to say,” and he settles himself before her, fingers beginning to play with the small rocks on the ground before him. “You’re going to say that the Mountain Men were savages, that they were evil,” and he eyes her, an eyebrow rising in question. “They were,” he shrugs. “But it’s easy to side with people most like you after someone else comes and slaughters your children and friends.”

“What—” and Clarke coughs past her words painfully. “What do you want?” she repeats.

“We want the Mountain,” he shrugs. “We want to live like we did,” and he smiles for a moment as he sees the doubt lingering in Clarke’s eyes. “You think it’s ironic don’t you? That the man who taught Earth Skills doesn’t want to live on the ground.”

Clarke glares at him forcefully though, his words and conversation only heightening the tension she feels building in her mind.

“Where are my friends,” she whispers, her eyes straining in the fading light as she tries to find a trail, another figure, a sign that might tell her where the Azgeda may be.

But Clarke hears a quiet crunch underfoot and she sees Pike turn to the sound, his hand falling to a handgun on his hip as he turns to face the newcomer. 

“Pike,” the woman says, “we ambushed the other lot,” and she gestures behind her. “They were exactly where we thought they’d be.” 

“Good work,” he says before nodding to the woman.

“It’s just you two?” Clarke asks, and she sees Torvun’s body shift subtly as he tries to move closer to the sound of the woman who takes a seat opposite them by the fire.

“Not just us two,” and Pike gestures into the distance, and as Clarke follows the motion she realises that she is held in a rocky outcrop that must linger somewhere between the Azgeda-Trikru border. “But most of the others aren’t here. There’s not a lot of us anymore, you made sure of that.”

“What do you want?” Clarke repeats.

“I’m not supposed to kill you,” Pike says. “I probably wouldn’t even really enjoy it,” and he scratches his beard. “It’s strange, don’t you think? The ground’s changed us. I never thought I’d ever kill someone. But we do what we must to survive,” and he sighs for a long moment.

“Then why are you attacking us?” Clarke questions, her mind still hazy and clouded.

“It’s simple,” and Pike shrugs. “You kill us so we kill you until one of us doesn’t live anymore,” and he gestures around him again. “You’ve been doing a good job of that, but we’re going to go down fighting.”

“Where’s my people?” Clarke asks, Pike’s words doing little to soothe her aching mind.

“Bring me the first one,” Pike calls out to the woman.

And Clarke watches as the woman nods once before fading into the dark, her footfalls disappearing into the wind. It must only be a few minutes, but as the time ticks by Clarke eyes the tired state that she finds Pike to be in, she eyes the gun strapped to his hip and she eyes the rocks nearby, some large enough to grasp with a fist, some small and jagged enough to cut and saw. But she hears the woman return, and she hears the whimpered curses and dragged feet of a wounded person.

The woman fades back into the firelight, and Clarke watches as she steps over a rock, one hand gripping a hooded figure by the back of the neck, the other gripping an upper arm. The woman comes to a stop besides pike as she kicks the person’s legs out from under them, and as their knees fall onto the harsh rock Clarke hears Ontari’s muffled voice curse out. The woman yanks the hood off Ontari’s head roughly, and Clarke hears Ontari swear out once more as her hair is pulled, a few strands coming away as the woman takes a step back.

Ontari blinks in the dim light of a fire, and as Clarke meets her eyes they share a quiet smile, but Clarke can’t help but to wince as she eyes the way Ontari’s nose bends crookedly, both her eyes blackened, blood washing her chin and neck red from the blood that had poured from her nose.

“She put up a fight,” Pike says as he eyes her for a moment. “She was one of the last ones standing before we took her out,” and he sighs once as he comes to a stand, arms folding across his chest as he peers at Clarke who still kneels before him.

“Where is everyone else,” Clarke whispers, her eyes hard glints as she still meets his gaze.

“Entani is ok,” Ontari says quickly, her voice coming broken and ragged.

“What do you want?” Clarke asks once more to Pike.

“I’m not supposed to kill you,” he says, “but it doesn’t mean I can’t lighten the load a little,” and Clarke sees him pull the handgun from his holster, before it comes to rest by his side. 

“Get the other one,” he calls to the woman, “the one with the broken ribs.”

“What do you want?” Clarke asks, but as she eyes the gun held in his hands she can’t help but to feel the panic begin to slowly build, and she knows she can sense Torvun’s anger and fury as he begins to struggle more obviously with the ropes that wrap around his body, the blindfold still stealing his vision.

“It’s easy, really,” Pike says as he turns to meet the woman who returns, Entani gasping out in pain as the woman drags her forcefully forward, one hand clutching her hair, her other hand digging into Entani’s ribs. “Choose,” Pike finishes as his eyes harden and as the woman pushes Entani down onto her knees besides Ontari.

“What do you want,” Clarke says once more, and she knows the panic finds its way into her voice.

“Choose,” Pike repeats as he takes a step behind Ontari and Entani, both women’s eyes meeting once as a realisation dawns upon them both.

“What do you want,” Clarke hisses, and she knows the fear pulls at her heart now, and as she meets Entani’s eyes she sees an acceptance behind the pain etched into her face. 

“Choose,” Pike says more softly now. “You’re good at making decisions for other people, Clarke.”

And Torvun lets out a muffled growl as he begins to more forcefully roll on the ground besides Clarke.

“Please,” and Clarke meets Ontari’s gaze, and she sees a sadness live in the brown eyes that stare back at her, and she watches as Ontari’s chin lifts and as she squares her shoulders. “What do you want, Pike?” 

“I want,” and Pike steps forward, a knife being drawn from a sheath before he presses it against Ontari’s throat, the barrel of his gun pushing against Entani’s head. “You to choose.”

“Please, Pike,” and Clarke knows she begins to sound just a little less like the warrior she knows she appears, and more like the girl who had been sent to the ground so many years ago.

“You know what I want,” Pike shrugs. “Choose,” and Clarke watches as he digs the blade into Ontari’s neck, the skin splitting slightly as blood begins to drip from the small wound. “Choose, Clarke,” and he presses the gun more harshly against Entani’s head.

“Please,” and Clarke shuffles forward awkwardly, the rocks under her knees digging into her flesh and drawing blood as she looks into Pike’s eyes, his own gaze hard and cold. “Just let them go and we can talk,” but she thinks her words useless. And maybe she knows they are when Pike merely smiles slightly. 

“Choose, Clarke,” and he gestures for the woman to come forward, and Clarke watches as she points her own handgun at Entani’s head as Pike holsters his own, free hand now coming to grip Ontari by the hair. “I won’t ask again.”

“Please,” and Clarke knows tears begin to well in her eyes as she sees the grimace that pulls at Ontari’s mouth as Pike’s fingers pull at her hair and as the knife begins to dig deeper into the skin under her chin. “I’ll do anything. Choose me—” and Clarke knows her voice comes broken and ragged. “Just let them go,” Clarke finishes quietly, her eyes moving to Entani who clutches her ribs painfully, her breathing coming watery and wheezing.

“It is ok, Clarke,” and Clarke’s eyes snap to Ontari to see her smiling at her sadly. “Today is my day,” Ontari finishes quietly as she meets Entani’s widened eyes. 

And so Ontari’s eyes close to the sounds of Entani’s wretched sobbing and her struggles against the woman who holds a fistful of her hair.

“I guess she chose for me,” Pike shrugs as he pushes Ontari forward, her face coming to crash against the rocky ground. “No one dreams of turning into a killer, Clarke,” he says as he draws his gun, the barrel pointing at Ontari who struggles to her knees once more, her hands ever tied behind her back. “But we all do what we must to survive,” Pike finishes.

And the last thing Clarke hears before her face is splashed with the red of blood is the loud crack of a bullet being fired and the shrieking rage of Entani.

 

* * *

 

Octavia ducks a falling branch, the explosion whipping her face with a wave of heat. A curse falls from her lips as she fires her arrow at the flashing of a muzzle that fires from a rocky outcrop. Lincoln curses quietly, the snap of a bullet echoing out around them.

“Pull back,” Anya yells over another explosion, and Octavia feels the snapping of air that whizzes past her face, and so she dives to the ground, a burst of gunfire ripping overhead.

“The Azgeda got ambushed,” Lincoln shouts over the noise of gunfire as he slides behind a tree. “They must need our help,” and she sees him peer from behind the tree trunk.

“We can not help them if we die ourselves,” Anya snaps back as she slips from tree trunk to tree trunk, arrow being fired in the few seconds she exposes herself. “Pull back,” she finishes with a glare and a curse falling from her lips. 

And so Octavia curses once more, she curses the Mountain Men, she curses their tech and she curses the mine that she is sure has just maimed one of the Azgeda warriors. 

“Move, Lincoln,” she yells as she begins ducking under branches, fingers reaching for the last of her arrows.

 

* * *

 

It’s quiet, it’s tense, and she feels eager. Jenma’s eyes scan the rocky outcrop, her gaze falls to the ravine that opens up before her and she feels the tension in the air.

“If they move this way we kill them,” she says as she tucks a strand behind her ear. 

“You think Wanheda will let them live if she captures any?” Bronat asks, his hand scratching his beard as he slips down besides her.

“I think Wanheda would kill them just by looking at them,” Jenma laughs quietly. “Her skull is fierce,” she finishes.

“It is,” Bronat agrees, his eyebrows waggling.

And so Jenma sighs with a roll of her eyes. 

“She would not even think of you,” Leeton snickers, “I think Wanheda and Ontari are close,” and Bronat sighs wistfully at Leeton’s words.

“Do not even bring up what you imagine,” Jenma whispers. “I know you Bronat. And do not even _think_ of it when Ontari is near. She would sense your dirty thoughts eas—”

An explosion echoes out through the terrain and Jenma’s eyes widen in shock before she registers the flash and the smoke that begins to billow up from the other side of the rocky outcrop.

“Ambush,” Leeton hisses. “What do we do, Jenma?”

“We move,” Jenma answers, jaw steeling as she scans the outcrop. “We go through the rocks, we must not let them escape through here if they flee.”

And so the others with her nod their heads, eyes flashing as they begin hearing the shouts and warnings that echo out through the lands.

 

* * *

 

Lexa’s gaze shifts over the map, her fingers gripping the edge of the table as she takes in the figures that mark the Azgeda forces near the border and the places where the Mountain Men have attacked.

“You think they are walking into a trap?” Titus asks from where he stands by her side, his gaze falling to the map and the figures that dot its surface.

“Yes,” Lexa answers, her thoughts turning worried for only a second before she banishes the thoughts. “Nia knows Clarke disobeys her orders so she will wish to remove her, and she can not just simply have her killed,” and Lexa glares harshly at the border between Trikru and Azgeda lands drawn onto the map.

“You think Nia would sacrifice the power of Wanheda so soon?” Titus questions.

“Perhaps not,” Lexa nods to herself slightly, but she knows Nia to be cruel and patient, past experience souring her thoughts. “But for now I will wait,” and Lexa knows she will avoid mention of what exists between her and Clarke, she thinks Titus need not know of it for now. At least until Nia has been replaced.

“That is why you sent Anya?” Titus asks, but she knows he asks not for an answer, but more for her to consider her actions. 

“Anya will obey orders,” Lexa answers anyway. “In this matter she will.”

“What if Clarke dies?” Titus says simply, his eyes peering at her profile as she continues to look at the map.

“She will not,” Lexa shrugs. “But if she is to fall then her power will be returned to the Mountain Men,” and Lexa takes a moment to consider her next words. “Which then means it remains in Nia’s hands as the Mountain works with Nia. But if Clarke returns than it will further Nia’s goal of issuing the challenge,” and as Lexa considers Nia’s next move she finds herself not so afraid, not so worried at the outcome, the plans she has set in motion enough to steady any doubt.

“You have done something, Heda,” Titus says, his eyes narrowing slightly as he examines the slight twitch in a muscle and the quiet stiffening of a shoulder.

“The prisoner has agreed to work with me, he will leave a trail for Clarke and her warriors,” Lexa says, the irony of her words lost on Titus who studies her for a moment and so she schools her face, blanks her thoughts and only considers Jaha and the dark of his skin and the squareness of his jaw and the way he lounges aimlessly in the cell. Titus need not know more, she thinks.

“You are sure he will?” Titus asks.

“Yes,” and she knows he will. “He will not risk his son’s life,” and she turns to meet Titus fully now. 

“But if he fails?” Titus pushes cautiously.

“I do not believe he will fail,” Lexa says, and she knows that Titus does not realise she speaks not of Jaha. 

 

* * *

 

The sun hangs high in the sky, Clarke already two days into her journey, and as Lexa studies a sword in her hand, she imagines Clarke must be almost at Ton DC, may even be already tracking Jaha’s trail that she had instructed for him to leave.

“Aden,” she calls out, sword swinging in an easy arc briefly. “You will use this,” she says as she flips the blunted weapon, hilt facing Aden. 

Lexa stifles a smile when she sees his eyes widen slightly as he takes in the length of the blade, the edge far longer than he has trained with before.

“You must adapt when you are faced with challenge,” Lexa says simply as she takes a step back, her own training sword swinging out before her as she eyes Aden and the careful steps he takes as he settles himself. “Do not reveal that you feel uncomfortable with the weapon you wield,” and Lexa takes a measured step forward as she begins to probe Aden’s footwork. “You must let your attacker believe that you have trained with a weapon your whole life, no matter how foreign it is to you,” she continues as she feints a strike to Aden’s leg, her lip curling only slightly as he adjusts his step and lowers his body just enough.

And she sees it. 

Aden’s eyes become guarded and still, she sees his eyes peer someone at her throat, and she sees him relax just barely. 

And she knows. 

Aden slips forward quickly, his feet fast and rapid as he changes stance as he lunges. The sword snaps out quickly, the blunted tip poised for her heart. But Lexa moves back, her own sword coming to swipe up at his underarm, but Aden shifts with the motion, a foot lashes out and it connects just barely with her calf. 

But Lexa sees the strike, her own leg moving fast enough to avoid most of the kick, and she feels the clang of metal against metal as their blades meet. But in the speed of his attack, Aden’s elbow collides with her jaw, the blow fast enough to stun, hard enough to disorientate, but Lexa absorbs it, she turns with it and she slips under his outstretched arm, her hands gripping him by the collar before throwing him over her shoulder.

And so she peers down at Aden who winces and clutches at his ribs as his breaths come pained and frantic.

“That was clever, Aden,” she says as she holds a hand out to help him up. “You knew you could not effectively use the weapon as a sword so you used it as a spear.”

“I did not best you though, Heda,” Aden says as he pats himself off.

“You were able to confuse me for long enough to land a strike,” and she sees his mouth begin to open in protest. “No matter how shallow the blow was, it still connected,” she finishes. 

And so Lexa nods once at Aden before tilting her head as she steps back, another nightblood coming to face Aden, their own unfamiliar weapon in hand as the two young nightbloods square off in front of each other.

“Word comes from Ton DC, Heda,” Gustus says quietly as he comes to stand besides her. “Clarke and the others left early this morning.”

“Good,” and she peers over her shoulder at Polis tower that rises in the distance, the clouds hanging slightly lower as winter begins to set in.

“You think they will succeed?” he asks, arms coming to fold across his chest as his gaze falls to Jani who slips under a wide slash of a sword, her hair whipping out behind her.

“I think Clarke will succeed,” Lexa says, her own eyes following Jani as she disarms the other nightblood before flipping him over her shoulder, blunted knife buried into the ground by his throat. 

“You think she will succeed despite sending her knowing Nia knew where her loyalties lie?” and she knows Gustus doesn’t question her, merely voices his concerns, however subtle they may be. 

“I do not think Nia will throw away Clarke’s life so quickly,” Lexa answers as she ignores the slowly building tension in her shoulders and the worry that seems to wriggle in the back of her mind.

Gustus falls quiet for a long moment then, and Lexa thinks his thoughts must move through the things he knows.

“She will be angry,” he says, “that you have not told her of your plan.”

“She does not need to know everything,” Lexa shrugs.

“And if she does not forgive you?” Gustus asks more quietly now, his words more breath than voice.

“We all make sacrifices for our people,” Lexa answers, her eyes focusing back on Aden as he comes to stand in front of Jani, the guards already pairing the nightbloods off with others or handing them different weapons.

 

* * *

 

The sun dips below the horizon now, the sky tinged a deep red, and as Lexa’s feet crest the last of the steps she pauses for a moment as her breaths even and her mind steadies. Her eyes fall to Clarke’s door once, her absence never ignored but Lexa shakes the thoughts from her mind as she turns down the hallway. She nods once to the guards who open her doors before slipping through. She finds herself greeted to the scents of soaps and spices that waft from her washroom and a steam already beginning to settle through out her quarters.

“Heda,” and Lexa hears Shana’s voice call from behind the closed door. 

And Lexa feels the small smile twitch the corner of her lips as she begins to release the buckles of her coat and loosen the straps of her leathers. She approaches the door quietly, her mind sifting through the events soon to take place. But the doors open, Shana standing on the other side, her hair braided a familiar pattern that keeps it out of her eyes and her gaze keen in the light. 

“You wish to bathe first?” Shana asks, eyes scanning the dirt smeared on Lexa’s chin from training with the nightbloods. 

And so Lexa nods tiredly, the few moment she steals for herself enough to reinvigorate her tired mind.

 

* * *

 

The water laps at her collar, the steam easily wafting around her as Shana unties her braids, fingers quick and familiar in the motions that Lexa feels tug at her scalp. 

“Kwin Nia speaks ill of you to other ambassadors, Heda,” Shana says into the silence as she brings a brush through Lexa’s hair. 

“Yes,” and Lexa sighs into the heat of the water. “She will issue a challenge soon,” and Lexa feels Shana tense at her words slightly.

“Many of the other handmaidens think you should have her killed,” Shana continues, the sound of a small vial being opened echoing out through Lexa’s washroom.

“They voice these thoughts?” Lexa asks, but she thinks she already knows the answer.

“They merely think them,” Shana says easily. 

“It is not so easy,” and Lexa’s mind turns to the times when she has had to put duty first, to sacrifice for her people. 

“It is not,” Shana whispers. “Jani took another small cake for the nightbloods this morning,” and Lexa doesn’t miss the change of topic and the ease in which Shana brings up Jani and her antics. “I have already had her punished.”

“And what punishment did you think fitting?” Lexa asks, but again, she thinks she already knows Shana’s answer after all these years. 

“I made her choose between cleaning all the weapons and armour of the guards, or the kitchen, Heda,” and Lexa knows Shana smiles slightly.

“She is too comfortable in Polis,” Lexa says, but she thinks her words come just a little sad now, the years Jani has spent under her care too long despite Jani’s youth.

“Jani is a strong nightblood,” Shana whispers as she senses Lexa’s worry. “She is not the oldest, but she is the most experienced,” Shana finishes quietly.

“She is a nightblood,” Lexa answers, her voice sounding just a little detached. “She knows what waits for her,” and Lexa winces slightly as Shana’s fingers tug at a knot in her hair. 

“She will wait for a very long time then, Heda,” Shana says, and Lexa knows she doesn’t miss the conviction that finds its way into the younger woman’s voice.

A knock rings out through her quarters though, the door to her washroom muffling the sound slightly and so Shana comes to a stand, a hand falling to the hidden knife strapped to her lower back as she slips through the door to the washroom. Lexa’s ears track the sounds, the hears Shana’s feet stop at her door before voices talk quietly and she knows she recognises the voice of one of her guards and the rapid fire questions Shana sends his way. 

Shana returns quickly, her body slipping through a small opening she makes before she closes the door.

“He has arrived, Heda,” she says, already reaching for a towel as Lexa begins to stand. 

And so Lexa wraps herself in the towel as Shana nods once before beginning to undress her own clothes. And as Lexa dries herself she eyes the scars that litter Shana’s body, some deep, some slight and superficial, but all speak of a life long service.

Shana smiles once as she reaches for Lexa’s clothes that lie in a neat pile by the bath, and as she begins to slip a leg into them Lexa finds her smiling slightly.

“I do not think I will ever be used to this,” Shana whispers as she stands, Lexa’s undershirt already slipping over her head.

“You have prepared for moments like this for your whole life, Shana,” Lexa says, eyes watching the way Shana’s face begins to harden, as her lips begin to hold themselves only slightly differently. 

It only takes a few more moments before Shana stands in the washroom, Lexa’s coat flowing down her body, gloved hands studded and fierce in the light, and the green of her eyes and the dark of her hair braided and neat.

“Heda,” Lexa says quietly, eyes moving over Shana’s body just once in inspection before Shana hands over her own clothes for Lexa to slip into. “Gustus and Titus will meet you in the main hallway. They will walk with you through Polis,” Lexa finishes.

“If Titus asks where you are?” Shana questions as she takes Lexa’s knife, her own being passed to Lexa who finishes buckling Shana’s armoured bodice around her waist. 

“He will not,” Lexa says, and she knows Titus will not openly question her motives and actions until later. “He will treat you as he treats me,” and Lexa smiles slightly as she hears the sigh Shana lets escape. “You may tell him what to do,” Lexa jokes quietly. 

And so Shana smiles once more, fingers reaching out to fix the bodice that straps Lexa’s waist quickly before she bows her head once before turning for the door, her chin rising evenly and her shoulders squaring.

And as Shana’s footsteps fade from behind the door, and as Lexa hears the doors to her quarters close, she runs a hand over the braids in her hair, their pattern unfamiliar, the way they fall across her shoulders foreign and unaccustomed. But she breaths in once, lets her mind ease and her shoulders relax and her back slouch just a little. 

And then she steps from the washroom, pads her way to the doors to her quarters and exits quietly. Lexa moves down the hallway smoothly, a slight bounce in her step that seems unkind to the years she has spent so steadfast in her service.


	14. Chapter 14

Tunnels sprawl out under Polis, and as Lexa takes another turn she can’t help but feel the comparison to the webs spiders spin in the warmth of a rising sun. But here, under Polis? It’s cold. Her usual coat replaced by the more stiff bodice Shana and the other handmaidens wear, their clothes built more for armour than for comfort. Lexa stops for a moment at an intersection, her gaze peering down the dark tunnel. A quiet drip echoes out around her, and she feels the tension in the air. She raises her arm then, the torch she holds burning brightly. 

“Heda?” and Lexa looks over her shoulder at another of her handmaidens who accompanies her. 

“Wait here,” Lexa says quietly before she turns right and begins walking down the long tunnel. 

Tracks lie underfoot, the walls sloping above her tiled and dark, cracks wind their way throughout the tunnel and rocks lie underfoot, cleaning or moving them a too monumental task. Her steps continue for a long while, her eyes ever constant as they track each shadow that flickers, each sound that echoes and each shifting she imagines.

She sees it slightly at first, another burning torch in the far distance, the flickering of it subtle enough for her to consider her eyes to lie, to merely be searching for signs of life. But as she nears it she sees the shifting form of a person and she knows he waits.

“Heda,” he says quietly, his voice echoing out around them.

“You are early,” Lexa answers, her gaze trailing over his body to find signs of weariness and travel.

“I do not have the luxury of taking my time,” he shrugs. “I am sure you understand,” and she knows she doesn’t miss the quiet mirth in his voice.

“Your warriors are ready?” she says, her eyes peering out behind him in search of others.

“They will be,” and he gazes behind himself briefly. “I did not bring them,” he says. “It is harder to hide hundreds of warriors than you would expect.”

“I would expect it to be hard to hide any number of warriors from your mother,” Lexa answers.

“I would expect it to be so,” and he chuckles. “She still searches for me,” and he sighs. “She almost caught me last full moon,” and Lexa sees him gesture to a cut on his cheek before sighing once. “Clarke will not approve of this” he says after a moment, a smile finding its way into his voice.

“She will not,” Lexa shrugs.

“I found Echo,” and he pauses once to take in her reaction. “She thought I was an assassin, almost took my head off,” and he laughs quietly. “She tells me Clarke is not happy with my disappearance.” 

“She is not,” and Lexa feels the small guilt that lingers within her chest.

“She has not agreed to challenge Nia?” Roan asks. 

“She has not,” Lexa says. “She will not,” and Lexa looks away for a moment.

“Has she told you why?” Roan asks, his arms almost folding across his chest before he registers the heat of the torch he holds.

“No,” and Lexa looks into the flame briefly in thought. “I believe she does not wish to be making decisions that affect thousands of lives,” and she shrugs. “I do not blame her.”

“Azgeda would be more easily changed with Wanheda at its head,” Roan says. 

“Yes,” and Lexa thinks for a moment. “Wanheda’s power would give all those who object to Azgeda being more open to the Coalition pause,” and Lexa meets Roan’s eyes in the dark. “You can do the same, it will only take more time,” and Roan nods his head.

“The Northern Azgeda are tired of war,” he agrees. “If they fall in line then all of Azgeda will do so eventually.”

And so Lexa nods her head once before turning to leave. 

“Then you will issue your own challenge to Nia once I defeat her champion,” Lexa says over her shoulder.

 

* * *

 

It all happens in less time than it takes for the body to fall to the ground with a splash of blood.

The gunshot echoes out through the air, Entani’s voice rages and shrieks out in pain and anger and Clarke feels the spray of blood as it hits her in the face. 

Ontari flinches with the shot, the sound scorching her body. Clarke sees her eyes squeeze shut in anticipation of the pain, of the blood. But Ontari’s eyes open cautiously, nervously. Her eyes widen as she looks down at herself before meeting Clarke’s shocked stare.

Clarke’s eyes snap to Pike who wobbles backwards, confusion flashing across his face as his hand drops the gun by his side as they come to grasp at the arrow shaft embedded in his throat. Blood gurgles past his lips, it bubbles and froths out the wound and his breaths come pained, wretched and wheezing, a bubble of blood and mucus and phlegm dripping from his mouth as he wobbles once more on his feet before he falls to the ground.

The other woman stares, her eyes widen as she sees Pike fall to the ground, her face turns to meet Clarke’s for only a moment. 

And Clarke lunges. She lunges forward, the woman’s gun firing off just past Entani’s head causing the healer to scream out in surprise as her own shocked face takes in Ontari who remains rooted to the ground, her eyes unfocused and stunned. Clarke’s body collides with the other woman, her hands still tied behind her back, and as they crash together they both fall to the ground.

It’s a scramble of limbs and tied hands. But Clarke manages to hook her leg around the other woman’s long enough for Entani to recover from the shock. And then Entani dives on top of the woman, her own hands tied behind her back as she brings her head backwards before slamming it down onto the woman’s nose, the sounds of bone breaking and the gasps of pain that escape Entani, her ribs clearly broken, pain wracking her body.

Clarke hears the sounds of feet coming, she hears the calling of her name and she feels the ground thump under her as she continues to wrestle and bite and smash her head against the pinned woman under her. But strong hands grip her by the shoulders and pull her away, and Clarke sees the flash of white fur and a sword that pierces the woman’s chest, silencing her screams for good.

“Clarke,” and Clarke’s head turns to find Jenma kneeling before her as Leeton begins cutting her hands free, Bronat shaking Ontari’s shoulders in an attempt to free her from her daze. “Where are the others,” Jenma asks, her eyes searching for the other Azgeda warriors.

“Over there,” Clarke gasps out, head jerking out towards where Ontari and Entani had both emerged from, and she knows her mouth bleeds when she tastes the blood. And so Jenma nods once before she races off, the other Azgeda not occupied with helping quickly racing after her.

And it takes Clarke a moment to notice that the arrow that pierces Pike’s throat bears the brown fletching of Trikru, and as her eyes move from his body and towards Entani, she finds Anya standing close by, another arrow already knocked as her eyes peer into the dark that begins settling around them. Clarke finds Lincoln kneeling over Entani’s sobbing body, the pain of her ribs enough to leave her maimed on the ground as the adrenaline wears off.

“She needs a healer, Clarke,” Lincoln says as he meets her gaze as Clarke’s hands are freed and as she scrambles over to Entani. 

“Entani,” and Clarke’s hand wipes a sweaty strand of hair from the woman’s face. “You’re going to be ok,” and she reaches for Entani’s hand, the skin sweaty and clammy. 

But as Entani’s mouth opens with a grimace Clarke recoils at the cough and blood that sprays past her lips. And Clarke knows Entani’s wounds are severe, she knows the woman needs more than just a grounder healer. 

“Lincoln,” Clarke hisses to him. “How quickly can you get her to either the Mountain or to Arkadia?” 

She sees Lincoln squint into the fading light as he thinks over her question quickly.

“I can arrive at Arkadia before the moon is at its highest,” he says quickly, his bow already slinging over his shoulder as he bends to scoop Entani into his arms, Clarke’s request already understood.

“I’ll go with him, Clarke,” and she looks up to see Octavia standing close by, the woman’s eyes nervous as she eyes the state Entani is in.

“Go,” Clarke hisses, “you’re going to be ok, Entani,” she finishes, her hand giving Entani’s one last squeeze as the other healer grimaces once more before Lincoln nods and stands cradling Entani to his chest as he begins moving away, Octavia staying close as she helps steady him over the rocky terrain. 

“We were ambushed, too,” Anya says into the tension. 

“I can tell,” Clarke says as she eyes the smoke that smears Anya’s face a sooty dark.

And Clarke turns back to Ontari to see Torvun finally freed, his eyes glaring harshly at the corpses of Pike and the other woman. Ontari’s eyes meet hers, her shock and stunned state having worn off somewhat, but Clarke thinks she can still sense the unease in Ontari’s motions.

“You’re ok, Ontari,” Clarke says as she moves to her, but as she eyes her broken nose and blood covered lower face, she can’t help but to grimace. “I need to set, that,” Clarke says quietly as she gestures to Ontari’s nose, and she sees the woman nod once before her jaw clenches, Clarke’s fingers already reaching forward. 

Clarke whispers a quiet _sorry_ as Ontari whimpers and as her eyes close and water from the pain. Anya hands her a small healers pack though, fresh bandages ready for her to use, and so she lets a small thanks fall from her lips as she begins to wrap it around Ontari’s face, careful in applying pressure before she ties it off.

“We should return to Polis, Clarke,” Anya says. “This was a trap. They knew we were coming,” and Anya looks around them as the sounds of approaching feet begin appear. “The Azgeda have returned,” and Clarke follows Anya’s gaze to find Jenma and other Azgeda either helping those caught in the explosion, or carrying the dead on their shoulders.

“We need to light their pyres first,” Clarke says as she struggles to her feet, Torvun rising with her as he meets her gaze cautiously. “We’re stopping at Arkadia first.” 

And not for the first time, Clarke feels a burning rage bubble in the corners of her mind.

 

* * *

 

Clarke steps awkwardly over a large rock, the heat from the burning pyres long since gone. Ontari walks silently besides her, eyes focusing somewhere on the ground by her feet, her fist clenched tightly around her knife, her other arm holding close to her side, her shoulder’s pain making itself known on her face.

“Entani will be ok,” Clarke says to her quietly, but as the words leave her lips she feels the memory of Entani’s ragged breathing and the spray of blood that had escaped her on a cough. “She’ll be ok,” and Clarke isn’t so sure she speaks only to Ontari now. “She’ll be ok.”

Ontari doesn’t answer though, she merely spits a mouthful of blood out onto the ground as she kicks at a rock before rolling Clarke’s hand from her shoulder and walking ahead quickly, her mood dark and listless in the settling dark.

“Entani is strong, Wanheda,” Jenma says quietly as she comes to an even stride besides Clarke. “You should not fear,” she finishes as she swipes a strand of hair behind an ear.

“Yeah,” but Clarke feels her own anger still lingering, and she knows Thelonious must have given Pike warning, or that Nia cares less about her people than Clarke had previously thought.

 

* * *

 

The mixed Trikru and Azgeda war party rest late that night. Clarke gazes up into the sky overhead and as she eyes the moon she thinks it at its highest as a cloud drifts past lazily. And she knows daybreak will be soon, perhaps not even more than a few hours and so she turns to face the rest of the Azgeda warriors.

“We rest only until daybreak then we move,” she calls out, the Azgeda warriors around her nodding their acceptance of her orders, and she sees Anya nod once to the Trikru who remain.

“We must talk, Clarke,” Anya says as she begins moving towards her. “It can not wait.”

And so Clarke rises, Torvun already falling into step besides her.

“They knew we were coming,” Anya says quietly as she turns to face Clarke as the trees swallow them.

“They did,” and Clarke feels the grinding of her teeth as it reverberates through her head. “You think Jaha gave us up?” 

“It would explain how they knew,” Anya says. 

Clarke worries her lip, thoughts shifting between Entani’s pain stricken face and the threat that lingers over Wells’ life. 

“Where was he?” Clarke asks after a long moment, only now just realising that Jaha had not beed present. “Were you attacked by Mountain Men, too?”

“Yes,” Anya says, her head tilting in thought. “Perhaps not more than ten, they fled. We did not give chase. You needed aid,” Anya finishes.

“Yeah,” and Clarke knows her words come numbed and somewhat barren.

“Your healer is strong,” Anya says after another awkward pause, her eyes softening so little that perhaps Clarke thinks she imagines it. 

“Entani will be ok,” Clarke says. But perhaps as she meets Anya’s gaze, she feels her words to be less sure than she would like. “Get some sleep,” Clarke finishes, already turning back to the camp. “We move soon,” and she doesn’t miss the raising of an eyebrow across Anya’s face, or the ever quiet presence of Torvun who remains more subdued and close as he shadows her steps with a small limp, his own wounds not serious enough for concern but aggravating enough to bring frustration across his lips with each step.

“Are you ok,” Clarke asks as she pauses, eyes trailing over Torvun’s body, wet and bloody patches smearing his furs.

“I am fine,” he grunts out, but as Clarke eyes him more closely she thinks it a lie. 

“Take your shirt off, she sighs, already sweeping away a branch from the ground before she points for Torvun to sit before her. “And don’t move,” she finishes as eyes Torvun’s bare back, his skin cracked and bloodied, wounds from the shrapnel cutting their way across his flesh.

“This doesn’t hurt?” Clarke asks as she eyes his wounds.

“Perhaps a little,” Torvun says. “Not as bad as Entani, though,” and he falls quiet, and Clarke knows he thinks of the healer.

“It’s not your fault,” Clarke says quietly as she rummages in her healers pack for something to help clean his wounds. 

“Perhaps it is not my fault,” and Torvun shrugs his broad shoulders. “But perhaps I could have done more.”

And Clarke knows arguing with him at this moment is pointless, and so she hums a noncommittal sound as she pours a strong Azgeda disinfectant over small tweezers before she begins pulling slices of metal from Torvun’s back.

It doesn’t take Clarke long to finish with Torvun’s back, and as her fingers smear the last of the paste against his wounds she lets a sigh fall from her lips. 

“I don’t have enough bandages to keep this clean for long,” she says. “When we get to Arkadia I’m going to reapply this, ok,” and she pats him on the shoulder as she rises. “Get some sleep Torvun, we move soon.”

And so Clarke steps from Torvun and begins winding her way between the few Azgeda who already lie on the ground, furs underneath them, bodies pressed close together in warmth.

Clarke finds Ontari lying on her side under loose furs, and as she settles down besides her she feels the woman stiffen slightly at her proximity. 

“Do you want to talk?” Clarke asks as she gazes up into the stars before rolling onto her side to face Ontari’s back.

“No,” Ontari says simply, her voice muffled and muted by the bandage wrapped around her nose and half her face.

And so Clarke lets a sigh fall from her lips as she turns onto her other side, hands tucking under her head as her eyes close and as her mind chases a too fleeting sleep.

 

* * *

 

Clarke wakes with a start, her mind restless in the early of the night. She feels Ontari’s shallow breathing besides her and she knows the other woman only partially asleep, not quite enough for her mind to rest, and so Clarke pauses in her motions and lets her eyes wander over the Azgeda who lie on furs, tents remaining packed in anticipation for an early and much too fast exit from the area. 

Clarke’s gaze shifts up into the sky overhead and she feels the slowly building worry that gnaws at her mind and that wriggles behind her eyelids. She knows Entani’s lungs to be punctured, her ribs to be broken, and she knows not if Lincoln and Octavia were able to get her to Arkadia in time. 

Clarke gazes out at the horizon then, and she eyes it for a long moment, and she thinks she sees the sun as it slowly begins to crest, as it slowly begins to spread its warmth and bleed the night away. And so Clarke sits up, rubs a hand over her face and curses the ache in her body caused by the explosion. 

And as Clarke rolls out of the furs she eyes Ontari who wakes to her movements, who remains ever quiet, her face more swollen now, her eyes blackened and her chin dribbled with blood. Other Azgeda warriors wake to her motions too, she eyes a few who stretch, a few who slip into the trees to relieve themselves and a few who already stand, already begin moving about the small camp. 

Jenma approaches carefully, her steps slightly unsure as she approaches Clarke who still sits on the furs, and Ontari who merely looks off into the distance.

“I can send Bronat or Leeton ahead,” Jenma says cautiously, her gaze falling to Ontari’s quietness. 

“It’s ok. We’ll be there soon enough,” Clarke say and so Jenma nods once before moving away.

“It’s not your fault, Ontari,” Clarke says more quietly now, the words only for Ontari to hear, her gaze careful as she eyes the silent woman who sits cross legged on the ground. “Entani’s not your fault.”

But Ontari merely glares at her once before looking away. But Clarke reaches out, fingers tugging at Ontari’s furs to draw her attention.

“It’s not your fault,” Clarke repeats, fingers squeezing Ontari’s shoulder.

“Entani might be dead,” Ontari says simply. “It is my fault.”

A sigh leaves Clarke’s lips as Ontari stands, kicks at a branch and walks to where the horses are, her mood worsening and her thoughts turning to the dark.

“Give Ontari time,” and Clarke turns at Torvun’s voice to find him crouching down by her side. “We will see Entani soon and then she will see that Entani is fine,” and Torvun smiles wanly at Clark.

“Yeah,” and Clarke worries her lip. “She’ll be ok.”

 

* * *

 

The war party moves quickly, their eyes more watchful of the trees that race past and any sign of movement, their close encounter with the last of the Mountain Men leaving them paranoid and tense. Clarke ducks under a low hanging branch, her hair whipping behind her as she pushes her horse as it rides at the forefront of the warriors, Anya close behind her who leads the remaining Trikru.

Clarke peers into the sky only briefly to check the time before she spurs her horse faster, Arkadia not far now. She hears a horn echo out from close by, the deep baritone of it signalling an Azgeda scout’s presence and so Clarke raises a hand in greeting, the gesture sure to be seen by whichever Azgeda scout remains hidden in the trees. 

And so they break from the trees.

A war camp sprawls out before her, many hundred strong, and as she eyes the colours she sees most to be the browns and greens of Trikru, the few Azgeda present lingering together at the edges of the camp, a distrust between clans ever present. Clarke urges her horse forward, its pace now more slowed as she begins winding between warriors and tents, many of them recognising her before bowing heads briefly as they make way for her and the war party she leads.

Arkadia stands out from the tents, too, the jagged, twisted hulk of metal reaching up into the sky, and as she nears she sees guards standing watch in the guard towers, weapons sung over backs in a friendly unease. It surprises her to find Raven standing not far from the main gates, the mechanic in conversation with a number of Trikru, Octavia and Lincoln standing by her side too.

Clarke pulls her horse up and she dismounts quickly, her feet already taking her to the gates as Octavia and Lincoln move to meet her half way.

“Is Entani ok?” Clarke says simply as she moves through the open gates of Arkadia. 

“She’s been in surgery,” Octavia says. “Abby can tell you more,” Octavia shrugs apologetically. “Sorry.”

And so Clarke steps around Octavia, and Ontari merely snaps at her to move before they make their way to the Ark’s main doors. The Azgeda warriors with them move quickly, those who are wounded being helped as they move through the corridors, their feet echoing out through the loud clanging of the metal plating beneath their feet. Skaikru step aside too, the Azgeda who move through the corridors glaring harshly at any who get in their way.

They round another corner and come face to face with the doors to the med bay, other Trikru and Azgeda warriors milling about outside with wounds Clarke assumes from sparring. But she pushes through, an Azgeda warriors snaps out a warning to a Trikru who glares too harshly at her only for another Trikru warrior to urge him backwards, Clarke’s stormy demeanour not lost on many of the warriors present. 

The doors slide open quickly to reveal a number of hospital beds occupied by wounded warriors, but Clarke only spares them one brief glance before her gaze settles on the familiar dark hair and braids that fan out around a swollen face. But Ontari reacts first, she pushes past Clarke and moves to Entani’s bed in only a few short strides. Clarke spares the Azgeda with her a brief look before following, the wounded Azgeda being helped to their own beds. 

Clarke comes to a stop besides Entani, the woman’s eyes closed and her breathing laboured but even.

“She’s going to pull through,” and Clarke turns at the sound of her mother’s voice. “She’s strong,” Abby finishes.

“Thank you,” Clarke whispers as she feels a silence begin to settle over her, and she knows she feels the easing of tension in her shoulders and the breath that escapes her lips. 

And so Clarke turns her attention back to Ontari to find her holding Entani’s hand quietly as she sits in a chair by the unconscious woman’s bed, words falling from her lips too quiet for Clarke to hear. But Clarke smiles as she sees Ontari reach forward and brush a strand of hair from Entani’s forehead and tuck it behind an ear.

“Octavia says you walked into an ambush,” Abby says quietly, her gaze falling on Ontari’s bandages and swollen face. 

“Yeah,” Clarke shrugs. “Everyone got hurt,” and she thinks she’ll avoid bringing up Pike’s actions. 

“I’m glad you’re ok, Clarke,” Abby says quietly as she glances to Ontari and Entani once more. “I’ll leave you guys to it,” she finishes with a sad smile.

“Hey,” and Clarke reaches for Abby’s hand as she turns to leave. “Thank you,” and Clarke makes sure their eyes meet. “I mean it,” and she squeezes it.

“You’re welcome, Clarke.”

 

* * *

 

“It’s too late for us to start going back to Polis now,” Clarke says as she lies back against a tree stump by a camp fire, the sun dipping below the horizon as it paints the sky a gentle pink haze. “Get some rest, guys,” and she gestures in the direction of where the other Azgeda who have been stationed at Arkadia have made their own. 

And so Jenma and the others nod once before moving away from Clarke, some grouping together, others moving towards the sounds of laughter and revelry so often found in war camps.

“You’re like some kind of boss, Clarke,” and she looks to see Raven walking towards her, hand rising in a wave. 

Clarke lifts a shoulder, her mind still not quite sure how to process what has happened in the last twenty four hours. “You’re here in Arkadia,” Clarke says instead.

“Yeah,” Raven answers as she sits opposite Clarke, the fire between them as it flickers and dances in the slight breeze. “We surveyed the damage at Ton DC, so now we’re here to see if we can spare anything. We’ll head back there tomorrow probably,” and she stifles a yawn. “Where’s ice girl and the big guy?” Raven asks as she gestures around them, Clarke’s solitude not lost on her.

“Ontari’s with Entani,” Clarke says. “I told Torvun to get checked too.”

“Yeah,” and Raven looks away briefly in thought. “I’m sorry about your friends,” she says. “It sounds like Pike turned into a monster,” she says cautiously. 

“Yeah,” Clarke echoes. “The ground changes us.”

“Most for the better,” Raven says easily. “Food?” she asks as she holds her arm out, a plate of dried meats and cheeses on it that Clarke eyes for a lonely moment.

“Yeah,” and Clarke smiles briefly. “Thanks.”

“I know I give Ontari a hard time, bu—”

A loud crack echoes out through the air before it falls silent. Clarke’s head snaps up, Raven’s eyes widen as she turns to sound. The war camp falls silent, too, and Clarke knows it only happens in a   few seconds, but she hears the quiet unease begin to spread throughout the warriors around her, many settling in for the night. 

She feels the tension build for a moment.

And it snaps. 

An explosion rips through the sky and Clarke’s eyes widen a fraction before realisation dawns on her. 

The Mountain Men attack. 

Clarke races to her feet, Raven already scurrying to hers. Clarke hears the shouts of warning and then the war camp explodes in a flurry of activity. Gun fire rips through the air, bullets hiss from the tree line that looks down the rolling hill before spearing into the warriors at the war camp’s edge. And Clarke’s eyes widen as she realises Azgeda forces are there, that Azgeda forces are the ones at the edges of the war camp, and she feels the rage burn into her senses and fuel her anger. 

Arkadia’s guard towers ignite in a flame of light, their flood lights turning on as they point in the direction of the tree line, and she hears the return gunfire, the Skaikru guards firing overhead. She sees a Trikru warrior bounding over a fire, healer packs strapped across his shoulders and carried in his arms, the healer clearly anticipating the many wounded that will end this fight.

Clarke feels the dirt kick up at her feet and she thinks she hears her name called out through the commotion that rages around her. But she runs, her feet take her through the warren of tents and warriors who rush in every direction, almost all she passes with bows in hands, some more experienced than others, but all fire their arrows into the trees as they begin rallying, warrior meeting warrior.

Clarke sees a flash of white fur that dives to the ground and so she races forward, grabs the Azgeda warrior by the elbow.

“With me,” Clarke yells at the woman who nods before falling into step behind Clarke as she continues to duck and swerve and wind her way closer and closer to the edge of the war camp as bullets splash the ground in front of her, as bullets maim and wound and steal the life of warrior after warrior around her. 

Clarke sees another Azgeda warrior who carries a wounded warrior further into the heart of the war camp and away from the bullets that shred into their numbers.

“Get her to safety,” Clarke yells over the commotion, she sees another few Azgeda grouping together, one carrying bundles of arrows, his eyes furious in the firelight that explodes around him. “With me!” Clarke yells at them, her hand waving, and she sees recognition dawn on their faces before they race after her, her feet taking her faster and faster and closer to the Mountain Men.

She sees a warrior fall to the ground, hand clutching at her chest before her eyes gloss over as quickly as life had been smashed from her. And Clarke feels the roar rip from her lips, and as she breaks into the Azgeda camp she feels herself be swamped in the white and greys of Azgeda, the furs and banners that flutter in the wind blood smeared and dripping red.

The war cry rips from Clarke’s lips as her hand raises as she rallies the remaining Azgeda to her side, and she pauses for only a moment to see them huddling close to the ground, weapons being drawn, arrows being knocked. Her gaze moves from Jenma and Bronat and Leeton before settling on Torvun who lies close by, his chest heaving with the exertion and the run she is sure he braved to find her in battle. And her eyes settle on Ontari who lies close by, her face unwrapped from the bandage, her face already bloodied and her eyes furious in the firelight.

And so Clarke rises, and the Azgeda rise with her. 

And she runs. 

Her feet carry her further and further from the war camp, her eyes scan the tree line and she sees the burst of gunfire before the air around her crackles and burns. And she knows she senses Azgeda warriors fall to the bullets, she knows some die by her side and she knows many will lie wounded on the ground as they wait to bleed out. But she doesn’t stop, her eyes find a rocky outcrop to her left that looks down upon the trees and so she yells out for the archers to break off and move left, and she sees some being hit by bullets, others diving behind trees before scaling the rocks to gain the high ground in their counter attack on the Mountain Men.

Clarke spares only a quick glance over her shoulder to see the Trikru warriors racing up the hill too, their numbers already swelling, already outnumbering the Azgeda, and she sees Anya racing at the forefront, she sees a Trikru warrior struck down, and she sees another burst of fire that rips from the guard towers that defend Arkadia. 

Clarke leaps once over a fallen tree and she feels the deadening of sound as the forest swallows her as quickly as it had appeared. 

The gunfire still echoes down the hill, and she knows that the Mountain Men focus on the Trikru, she knows the Trikru numbers seem a priority and so she holds a hand up and the Azgeda around her pause, they quiet and she knows they wait for her command. 

“We kill them all,” she says simply over her shoulder as she slips the panther skull over her face, her eyes glinting in the moon light that dapples overhead.

And so the Azgeda stalk forward silently, and Clarke knows that now she has become the hunter.


	15. Chapter 15

Her body creeps forward, inches forward. A gunshot echoes out through the trees and Clarke sees Bronat flinch at the too close noise. Clarke’s hand raises carefully, and she feels Jenma and Leeton pause in their motions, eyes trained onto the backs of two Mountain Men in front of them.

Jenma sneaks forward first, her knife being drawn silently as she pauses for just long enough for Leeton to sync her movements. And then they strike. Jenma’s blade sinks into the first Mountain Man’s throat, Leeton’s piercing the second’s heart from behind.

“Go,” Clarke hisses as she knocks an arrow to her bow, eyes trained on the third who continues to fire into the Trikru who cover the hilltop, some even dashing through the trees as they fire their own arrows towards the flashes of gunfire. And her arrow snaps forward, she sees it pierce the Mountain Man, a flash of pain spreading across a face before a shadowy figure drops from the trees overhead, knife slashing at the exposed throat. 

And Anya comes to a low crouch over the dying man’s body, her eyes snapping to where the arrow had been fired, and their eyes meet for only a moment before Anya nods once before ducking away, other shadows moving through the treetops as Trikru begin bleeding through the trees as they follow the sounds of the gunshots that continue to tear through the air.

Ontari comes to a crouch behind Clarke, her face a bruised and bloodied mess, a small splint the only thing keeping her nose secure. Clarke sees Ontari wipe her knife clean on the body of one of the dead Mountain Men before she slips it into place on her hip as she draws an arrow.

“Been busy?” Clarke asks. 

“Yes,” Ontari says simply as she turns to the sounds of a low bird call echoing out through the trees.

“They have found others,” Torvun whispers as he slips from tree to tree, the moon barely giving light to the pale of their furs. 

“What of Trikru, Wanheda?” Leeton asks, the woman’s curly hair clinging to her face as she peers up into the branches overhead. 

“They seem to be sticking to the tree line,” Clarke answers as she peers into the direction Anya and the few Trikru who had made it through the wall of bullets had travelled. “We keep taking out any Mountain Men trying to flank us or set traps or ambushes,” Clarke finishes. 

And so the Azgeda around her nod before fanning out, their familiarity with the trees a product of their time at the Mountain since its fall. Clarke’s hand flicks out behind her, the motion sending a few Azgeda in a wide arc as they peel off from the main group as they move to cut off any attempt at fleeing. Clarke hears the hoot echo out around them once more, and she feels the forest quieten even further, the gun shots booming through the trees less piercing now.

Clarke’s hand raises slowly before she flattens her palm towards the ground, and so the Azgeda still as they slide onto their stomachs, some rolling behind trees and some freezing where they crouch by a bush. She sees the Mountain Men slinking forward, torches on their guns illuminating the forest before them, the beams moving in slow arcs. Clarke feels Ontari slip closer to her, the splint holding her nose comical in comparison to the ferocity in her eyes. 

The Mountain Men pause though, and she knows they sense the Azgeda closeness, and so Clarke’s breath stills for long moments, and she knows others with her shallow their breathing and temper their eagerness for the moment. And so Clarke waits. She waits for just a moment longer, for long enough that the Mountain Men’s wary seems to lessen, and she waits until they begin to move once more, their backs slowly turning to the Azgeda that remain hidden in the trees. 

And a second and an offered back is all that is needed and so an Azgeda warrior darts forward first, her hand clamping over a mouth as she drags the first of the Mountain Men onto her sword that slices through a back. Leeton springs forward, too, her foot kicking out a leg as she slides her blade across a throat with a splash of blood. But the gurgling death alerts the others, and Clarke sees them stiffen for just a second before recognition dawns on them as they begin to turn, their weapons rising to fire into the trees. But Clarke feels her fingers snatch an arrow from her quiver, and she feels the creak in her fingers as she knocks and draws and releases within moments. 

Her arrow snaps forward in a flash, and others do so, too. She sees the white fletching of Azgeda arrows snake out from the bushes and pin cushion into the remaining Mountain Men who gasps out in pain and shock before toppling over backwards even before their guns finish rising before them.

And so Clarke rises, her eyes scanning around her at the bodies of the Mountain Men who lie dead at her feet. 

“He is still not with them,” Torvun says as he comes to a stand besides her. 

“He is not,” Ontari echoes quietly as she begins pulling arrows from the bodies as she hands them back to the Azgeda.

“We keep looking,” Clarke answers as she meets the gazes of those who stand around her. 

Clarke’s ears pick up another low crack of gunfire that echoes throughout the trees and so she begins moving to it, her fur covered feet muffling the sounds as she steps over sticks and branches. The Azgeda with her fan out, their low numbers bleeding into the trees and the shadows, only the brief flashes of light that shines from above lighting their way. 

Clarke hears another hoot, this one more shrill, more piercing and so she begins to move faster, her eyes scanning out around her for signs of movement. The hoot comes once more, this time closer, and gunshots sound out too, and she knows Mountain Men must be close by.

 

* * *

 

She ducks the swing of a rifle, the buttstock clipping her forehead harshly as it pulls a wince from her lips. She feels the kick that hits her in the shin and she curses out quietly as her leg lifts and as she feels the impact of the ground against her back, but she rolls backwards with the momentum, her feet planting on the ground as she leaps onto the man, his rifle beginning to point in her direction. 

And Clarke feels the loud gunshot echo between them, the bullet kicking up dirt at her feet and so she brings her head forward sharply, her brow slamming into the man’s nose and she feels the breaking of bone. Her foot kicks his leg out from under him with a harsh snap before she drives her knee into his ribs as she slips back. She forces a space between them, and she drops onto her back, and as she feels gravity take hold she knocks an arrow, she aims and she fires before she feels the hard bite of the ground once more. 

Her arrow snaps forward and it punches into the man’s forehead and jerks his head backwards with a geyser of blood that sprays the leaves overhead. But Clarke hardly spares him a glance as she comes to her feet quickly, eyes scanning around her, the blood dripping from her forehead only a small irritant that stings for a moment before she pushes it into the corners of her mind.

And she sees him. She sees his dark skin and his keen eyes. She knocks an arrow, and as she draws she sees him duck behind a tree as someone fires their own arrow only for it to miss its mark. But her eyes snap to Leeton who throws a Mountain Man over her shoulder before Bronat slides a blade into another’s leg before Jenma cleaves his head off with a practiced slash of her sword. And Clarke sees Ontari duck a gunshot, her face wincing to the loud noise for only a moment before Torvun grips the man by the throat before pinning him to the ground, his blade impaling the man’s chest. 

And Clarke fires her arrow, she watches as it slips through the small space between Leeton and Bronat who hardly flinch at the arrow as it snaps past them before impaling the last Mountain Man in the chest with a low thump.

“Get him!” Clarke shouts over the dying noise of combat. And so the Azgeda run, and she knows Jaha knows. And so she dives behind a tree as he fires into the Azgeda, but his bullets miss, and she knows he must be low on bullets, his ammunition soon to run dry, and so she springs forward, and she feels an Azgeda climb a tree, the scout not unfamiliar with the trees now, and she feels the man begin to leap from branch to branch overhead as he tries to cut off Jaha’s escape. 

Jenma and Leeton break off from the main group as they slip into the trees to the left and right, their bodies bleeding into the distance as their feet take them faster and faster and wider and wider, the distance they cover enough to soon encircling Jaha’s tiring escape.

Clarke sees an Azgeda warrior run up a fallen tree before leaping off its end, the time in the air enough for her to draw a blunted arrow as she sights down its length and fire before she lands on the ground and rolls to her feet. And she hears Jaha’s pained curse as the arrow hits his leg causing him to stumble. 

Ontari snarls forward with a leap, and Clarke watches as Ontari soars through the air and dives over a branch as her body smashes into Jaha’s stumbling form. And Clarke watches as they roll for a moment, she watches as Ontari’s elbow snakes out, snapping against Jaha’s cheek. And she watches as Jaha and Ontari scramble on the ground frantically, and her eyes hone in as Jaha finds a grip on Ontari’s furs, his hands gripping at them enough to twist their bodies until he comes to straddle her waist. Jaha’s eyes flash to the knife strapped to Ontari’s hip and he snatches it, and Clarke watches as Jaha drives it forward only for Ontari to twist easily, lazily with the motion, her right hand snatching Jaha’s wrist and directing the stab into the ground by her head as her left punches up and into his throat, her hips raising off the ground as her body twists with the disarming motion. 

And then Ontari jerks Jaha’s hand from the blade as she twists his wrist with a sharp snap, the pain throwing off Jaha as he gurgles and splutters past the strike to his throat and his now broken wrist. And so Ontari plants her knees under her, grips Jaha by the collar and throws him over her shoulders with a brutal familiarity before she comes to straddle his chest, her knife snatched from where it was embedded in the ground, the blade now resting against Jaha’s throat as the other Azgeda circling them, some eyes turned outwards into the trees, others eyeing Jaha carefully.

Clarke comes to a stop besides Ontari as she looks down at Jaha’s pain filled face.

“You’ve lost,” Clarke hisses, an arrow still knocked to her bow, and she sees Ontari dig her knife harshly into the skin under Jaha’s neck. 

And Clarke sees Jaha’s mouth begin to open, words already forming on his lips, but as the sound only just begins to form Ontari smashes the pommel of her knife against the side of his head, and Clarke sees Jaha’s eyes roll back before he slumps against the ground unconscious. 

“For Entani,” Ontari hisses into the silence as she stands, kicks harshly into his ribs and slides her knife back into its sheath.

And so Clarke sighs as she eyes Jaha’s unconscious body. 

“Let’s get him back to Arkadia. We’ll question him there.”

 

* * *

 

The pyres burn into her eyes, the flames a sickening reddened orange that bleeds into the haze of smoke as it drifts upwards and into the pink of the sky overhead. Clarke feels the smoke breathe through her furs and she feels it cling to her skin and in her hair. But as her eyes begin to water, as her nose begins to smother from the heat, she keeps her gaze steady. 

Not for the first time she finds herself counting the remnants of the pyres before her, eyes moving from one to the next to the next until she reaches the end before beginning to count once more, her eyes moving slowly in the opposite direction now, her gaze quiet, her thoughts seething and broken and furious to the truth of the charred and broken remains of the branches used for kindling, and the ash that remains, the only thing left of the Azgeda warriors that lost their fight.

Clarke’s gaze moves from the pyres and to the Azgeda who stand by her side, many remain quietly in place, eyes fixated on the burning remains of a friend, of a brother, sister. Someone they had fought with, someone they had lived with and suffered and survived with. Clarke’s gaze moves to the Trikru warriors who stand not far, their own pyres burning quietly, their losses larger than the Azgeda, the Trikru attack up the hill side a more brutal, more bloody endeavour. Her gaze moves to the Skaikru who stand quietly between the Azgeda and the Trikru, she finds Kane standing at the forefront, his return to Arkadia from Polis a result of the attack. And as she takes him in she sees his eyes downcast as the smoke lingers around him, she sees the years of weary that she is sure he carries within his mind and upon his shoulders.

Clarke’s gaze turns back to the burning pyres, the people by her side enough to give a comfort, however slight it may feel.

“You should still be lying down,” Clarke says quietly as she hears Entani whimper as a cough wracks through her lips.

Entani merely meets her gaze once before she shrugs, eyes turning back to the pyres that burn. Ontari shifts closer to Entani though, her hands subtle as they hover just past the other healer’s hip as she wobbles slightly, her legs unsure and uneven beneath her.

But Clarke knows Entani will remain, and she knows the Azgeda will remain, too, she knows the warriors who stand by her side will do so until the pyres burn fully, until the smoke and the fires burn and die, until the embers that remain glow their last breath.

And so Clarke turns back to the pyres and she lets the fire burn into her eyes and bring forth memories that she thinks ever present in the corners of her waking mind and ever clear in her sleepless nights.

 

* * *

 

Clarke’s step echo through the halls of Arkadia, the cold chill that she feels seeping through the metal enough to bring memories of her time as a prisoner to the forefront of her mind. But as she passes the warmth of a burning torch, the flame flickering slightly, she thinks it enough to hold back the moments she knows linger somewhere just past the edges of her vision. 

She comes to the doors of the med bay, and as they slide open she eyes the many warriors who lie in beds, and the many more who lie on makeshift cots that cover the floor. And it still shocks Clarke to see the most severely wounded, Azgeda and Trikru alike, as they lie in a pain filled slumber, the drugs that she knows dull the pain not quite enough. Her eyes skim over bed and cot and wounded warrior until they fall onto the familiar dark braids of Ontari’s head that rests against Entani’s thigh, both women sleeping, one’s rest drug addled, the other’s worried and restless. 

Clarke watches them quietly, and she feels the small smile that tugs at her lips as she sees Ontari squeeze Entani’s hand in slumber, the healer’s breathing still shallow and horse and broken to her ears.

“She shouldn’t have gone outside,” Abby says quietly as she comes to a stand by Clarke’s side. 

“You couldn’t stop her, could you?” Clarke asks, her eyes meeting her mothers for a moment.

“No,” Abby replies, eyes darting just once to a cough that comes from a sleeping warrior. “She’s stubborn,” Abby finishes.

“Yeah,” and Clarke shrugs. “I guess we all are,” and she worries her lip for a moment. “Can we talk?” 

“Yeah,” and Abby smiles briefly. “This way,” and she gestures to her office that sits at the far end of the med bay. 

Clarke follows Abby, the older woman picking her way between the wounded warriors, her medical coat swinging slightly with her steps, her eyes ever careful as she checks over those she passes. But they come to Abby’s office, and as Clarke steps into it, the doors closing behind her, she feels the tension lift slightly from her shoulders, the sounds of pain and suffering cutting off with a quiet thud.

And maybe it’s the days she has spent on the move, the sleepless nights, the anger and the frustration and the worry and the hurt. The shock and the time that has been stolen from her. Or maybe it’s the death, the life she has taken, the life she thinks she will continue to take. But maybe it’s Abby’s presence, maybe it’s her mothers worried gaze, her eyes taking in the shadows Clarke knows must linger under her eyes and the blood that must bloody her face and her furs. 

And Clarke knows she feels it. She feels the shaking that starts, she feels the wetness that pools in her eyes and the anger and frustration that snaps. 

And so Clarke feels herself shake, feels herself break. She feels the sob that wracks through her chest, the tears that stain down her cheeks. But most of all she feels Abby’s arms that take her in a tight embrace, that squeeze her and hold her steady in the quiet that settles around them. 

Clarke hears Abby’s voice soothe her worries, she hears her mother’s whispered words telling her it will be alright, that things are ok. That _she’s_ ok. And it takes Clarke long moments before she realises that she kneels on the ground, that she is cradled against her mother’s chest, and that Abby runs a soothing hand over her hair, the gentle brushes the comfort of long lost memories. 

“I’m sorry,” Clarke whispers, and she knows it must sound ragged and broken and weak. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok, Clarke,” Abby whispers in turn, her arms slowly beginning to rock Clarke against her once more. “It’s ok.” 

 

* * *

 

It’s an odd, familiar thing to be walking down the corridors of metal. Clarke’s footsteps echo out around her, the steps of the Azgeda guards by her side meeting her steps with their own echoing steps. She passes a number of Skaikru who eye them cautiously, who eye the whites of the war paint and the fierceness with which they hold themselves. But Clarke spares them hardly a thought, her eyes staring ahead, her jaw clenched tightly and a scowl plastered across her face that pulls at her lips. She turns down a corridor to find a number of Skaikru guards standing in front of large windows doors, a control panel recessed into the wall that glows in the dimmed light. 

The guards look up at the sound of her approach, she sees them stiffen slightly in stance and she sees a few drop their hands to the shock batons on their hips. Clarke’s feet take her further though, and she comes to a stop in front of the guards, the black of their uniforms a stark contrast to the whites of the Azgeda who fan out behind her.

“Stand aside,” Clarke says evenly as she looks up at the lead guard, his eyes careful as he takes in her demeanour, her stance, and the way a few of the Azgeda drop their hands to the knives strapped to their bodies, or as some shift ever so slightly as they eye the shock batons.

“Clarke,” and she hears Kane’s voice echo against the metal of the corridor, but Clarke keeps her gaze focused on the man before her, yet her ears focus on Kane’s footsteps as they approach.

“Clarke,” Kane says once more as he comes to a stand in front of her, his gaze careful, his hands coming up placatingly as he turns his attention to Torvun who growls out a quiet warning for a guard who moves too close.

“Stand aside, Kane,” Clarke says evenly, and she makes sure her voice carries no bite, the warriors by her side a threat enough.

“Clarke,” Kane says once more. “You gave him to us,” and Kane’s voice softens slightly.

“I didn’t give him to you,” Clarke says. “Now please stand aside, Kane.”

“I’m sorry, Clarke,” and she sees Kane look briefly to an Azgeda warrior who slowly begins to draw his knife, the sound of it ringing out purposefully. “But as Chancellor of—”

“You might be the Chancellor,” Clarke interrupts. “But I’m in charge,” and Clarke steps forward, and she knows the Azgeda warriors shadow her steps. “I won’t ask you again, Kane. Stand aside,” and Clarke raises her chin slightly, an eyebrow lifting as she holds his gaze. 

And she feels the tension begin to rise, she feels the Azgeda begin to inch forward and she begins to sense the shifting in the air. 

“Let them through,” Kane sighs quietly, his hand waving the Skaikru guards back as he steps aside. 

And so Clarke steps forward, the heavy doors before her sliding open to reveal a large cell, empty except for a lone chair that sits in the middle, its legs bolted to the floor, its occupant eyeing her carefully, his gaze guarded and uncertain as the Azgeda warriors fill the space.

“Clarke,” he says, his voice horse, ragged.

Clarke eyes him for a long moment, she eyes the cast around his wrist, she watches as he takes in the warriors, she sees a defiance begin to linger in his eyes once more, his jaw clenches and he readies himself for whatever he thinks must be soon to come.

Clarke looks to Torvun once before she glances past him and to the warriors that fan out around her. 

“Make sure we aren’t interrupted,” Clarke says to them, and she sees them nod easily before stepping through the doors.

Clarke waits until the last of the warriors exit through the doors and until they slide shut. She glances over her shoulder just once to find the Azgeda warriors staring down the Skaikru guards, backs to the door.

“The only reason you aren’t dead is because Wells deserves to say goodbye to his father,” Clarke begins. “There’s a few ways this plays out,” and she gestures to Torvun who steps closer. “The first is that I have him beat you until you can’t walk, and then we drag you back to Polis where we get the information out of you and then you die a painful death,” and Torvun rolls his shoulders easily. “Or you tell me everything you know about Nia right now,” and she gestures around her. “And then maybe I’ll let you live,” and Clarke eyes Jaha for a long moment, the silence heavy on his shoulders. 

“That’s it?” Jaha asks, his eyes following Torvun who slowly moves to circle him. 

“You didn’t leave yourself many ways out of this,” Clarke counters. “You were given the option to work with us. To get the information we needed,” and she pauses for a moment. “But then you attacked Arkadia. You attacked your own people.”

“From where I’m standing you and the Commander aren’t so different from Nia,” Jaha says. “You all use people to get what you want.” 

“So you think that justifies murder? Killing people? Trying to start another war?” 

“Haven’t you done all those things?” Jaha retorts. 

“Maybe,” and Clarke shrugs, memories of the lives she has taken slowly drifting through her mind. “But the things I do? I do them to stop wars,” and she steps forward slowly. “You don’t. So yeah, I don’t buy it. Maybe I’ve done things no one should do. But I’ll live with the consequences,” and Clarke lets her thoughts turn to the Mountain, to the sleepless nights and the anger that burns into her. “I’ll live with the consequences,” she repeats. “Just,” and Clarke stops right before Jaha, “like you.”

Jaha looks up at her for a long moment, his eyes taking in the white of the warpaint splashed across her face. But he sighs, and his voice comes ragged once more, tired and weary, and as Jaha peers just once over her shoulder she thinks she sees a decision made, she thinks she sees an acceptance of how his life has played out.

“I never spoke to Nia,” he says. “Never met anyone, never saw anyone,” and he holds Clarke’s gaze. “Pike was the only one who ever seemed to have contact,” Jaha finishes.

“Pike,” Clarke voices, thoughts turning to the hatred she had seen in his eyes. “Why would he side with Nia?”

“He said that Nia told him that the Commander was the one who ran everything, that all the clans lived in fear of her,” and Jaha snorts. “Nia wasn’t far from the truth.”

“How did you stay in contact?” Clarke asks.

“Bird,” Jaha answers. “I only saw it twice but it would arrive in the morning, Pike would read what ever message was there, and then the bird would fly off.”

Clarke lets his words sink in slowly, and she knows what he says is evidence, but perhaps not enough just yet to prove that Nia works with the Mountain Men. Clarke turns from Jaha then, Torvun quick to come to her side as she glances once through the doors at the Azgeda warriors who stand outside. 

“It’s not enough to prove that Nia worked with the Mountain Men,” Clarke whispers quietly to Torvun. 

“It is not,” he agrees lowly. “What do you wish to do?” he asks.

“We need to tell Lexa about this,” and Clarke scratches at the cut on her forehead, the wound already beginning to itch slightly. “We can’t do much else until she knows everything we do,” and Clarke nods to herself briefly. “Jaha is safest here,” and Clarke looks up at Torvun, the unspoken threat of Nia understood.

“I agree,” Torvun says evenly. 

And so Clarke turns back to Jaha who eyes her cautiously, his gaze guarded once more as Torvun begins to step forward, his hands closing into fists.

“I told you what you wanted,” Jaha says, his eyes widening only slightly as realisation dawns on him at what Torvun is about to do.

“You did,” Clarke shrugs. “But this is for killing my friends,” and she gestures to the Azgeda outside. “Be thankful it’s Torvun and not them. At least he knows not to accidentally kill you.”  

 

* * *

 

Polis tower rears up through the trees, the burning flame at its peak a signal fire that draws the weary warriors forward. Many of the wounded had been dropped off at the Mountain, it’s expanded medical facilities large enough to handle the scores of warriors that hadn’t been able to be attended to at Arkadia. And so the warriors that ride with Clarke, Azgeda and Trikru alike, feel the aches in their bones, the days of travel and combat having worn many down. 

Clarke urges her horse forward though, its gait lazy in its ministrations as it winds through the trees and along the path. Clarke spies Anya riding ahead, the Trikru warriors an ever constant presence whenever the Azgeda travel through Trikru lands. Clarke glances behind her briefly to find Ontari hovering close by Entani’s side, the wounded healer having insisted on not being left behind, the only concession that she must wear a brace that wraps her torso stiffly to ensure her ribs remain steady and stitches not come loose. And Clarke thinks she feels the lifting of her lips as she sees Ontari reach out to steady Entani, only for the healer to snap at her grumpily.

 

* * *

 

The war party arrives at the base of Polis tower to find guards and servants waiting to take the horses to the stables, others ready to help unpack supplies. Clarke dismounts swiftly, her feet landing on the ground heavily as she runs a hand down her horse’s neck, the beast neighing quietly as it huffs at her hair for a moment before being guided away by a young servant, the girl chatting quietly to it as she leads it to the stables.

“Wanheda,” and Clarke turns to find Shana walking to her, eyes gazing once past Clarke and to Torvun who eyes the handmaiden carefully. “You are needed at the ambassador meeting,” Shana says.

“It can’t wait?” Clarke asks tiredly, and though the sun still hangs high in the sky, she knows she could find sleep at a moment’s notice.

“I apologise, Wanheda,” Shana says quietly, her head bowing. “Kwin Nia requested your presence as soon as you arrived.”

And so Clarke lets a sigh leave her lips, her gaze falling to Ontari who helps Entani off her horse, the healer content to glare harshly at any who look too long. Torvun follows her though, his large body casting a shadow across the ground as they begin to move through Polis Tower’s open doors.

Clarke follows Shana to the elevator, the handmaiden opening the doors to reveal the elevator waits for them, and so Clarke steps inside, Torvun besides her as Shana follows them in as she slides the doors shut. Clarke stifles a yawn as the elevator begins to ascend, the creaking of the ropes a constant thrumming through her mind.

“The ambassadors are angry,” Shana says into the quiet. 

“Thanks for the warning,” Clarke says, her eyes rolling, the headache she is sure to face already beginning to form. 

The elevator comes to a stop after long moments, and Clarke watches as Shana slides open the doors before exiting, her hand extending as she gestures down the hallway for Clarke to take the lead. 

And so Clarke begins the short walk from the elevators and to the main throne room, and as she eyes the large double doors that stand before her, she thinks she hears the shouts of anger, of retorts and accusations that fly from angry ambassador to angry ambassador. 

“They are angry,” Shana says once more, an apologetic smile falling from her lips.

Guards open the doors for Clarke, and as she steps through them she finds herself confronted by ambassadors standing, some siting, some quietly taking in what transpires before them, others more eager to voice their thoughts. 

“You accuse us of doing nothing?” the Trikru ambassador asks, his gaze aflame as he eyes the Lake Clan ambassador. “What have you done?” 

“You can not accuse Trikru when even you have not done anything yourself,” a Broadleaf warrior shouts as she defends the Trikru who sit close by.

“We can and we will,” the Lake Clan ambassador retorts, a finger jabbing in the direction of the Broadleaf delegation.

And as conversation continues to flow between the forest clans and the others, Clarke feels the tension building. But her gaze lands on Lexa quickly, the woman leaning back in her chair as she watches who takes whose side before her, her eyes snapping from person to person as they stand and as they continue to shout. But Clarke thinks she senses it moments before she hears it.

Lexa sighs, her gaze once meeting Clarke’s, a barely there smiling gracing her lips, and then she stands, her eyes hardening, her back straightening.

“Enough,” Lexa’s voice echoes out through the halls, her gaze snapping to those who still stand. “Wanheda has returned,” and Lexa jerks her chin towards Clarke. “We will hear from Wanheda,” and Lexa returns to her throne.

Clarke nods her head once before her eyes land on Nia who sits quietly at the head of the Azgeda delegation, Teril ever present by her side. And so Clarke begins to move forward, her eyes meeting the ambassadors and warriors from the clans, some more cautious as they take in her weary body, her bloodied clothes and the cut on her forehead.

“Tell me, Clarke,” Nia says evenly. “Did you find the Mountain Men?”

“Yes, Kwin Nia,” Clarke answers as their eyes meet, Nia’s own gaze hiding a hidden mirth that Clarke thinks not quite so warm. “We were ambushed,” she says as she takes her seat besides Nia.

“You were able to defeat them?” a warrior asks.

“Yes,” Clarke calls out, her voice slowly taking a hardened edge as she begins to recall what has happened in the last few days. “We were ambushed, we lost warriors. But we defeated that group of Mountain Men,” and Clarke feels a few clans nod their heads at her words.

“They ambushed you?” someone asks.

“Yes,” Clarke answers.

“Whose territory were you in?” another asks.

“Trikru,” and Clarke thinks she knows where the questions turn.

“How were the Mountain Men able to set an ambush for Azgeda and Trikru warriors in Trikru lands?”

“I do not know,” Clarke answers, but she knows she does. 

“Trikru does not defend its own borders,” an Azgeda warrior sneers.

“And what of Arkadia, Clarke?” Nia asks, her gaze moving from person to person who sits in the room. “How were the Mountain Men able to move through Trikru lands and attack Skaikru?”

“I don’t know,” Clarke answers, her gaze trying to meet Lexa’s, the other woman merely staring harshly at Nia, her fingers gripping the armrests of her throne.

“I do,” Nia sneers loudly, her eyes moving from warrior to warrior, ambassador to ambassador that sits around her. “Trikru does nothing to protect members of the Coalition,” and Nia meets Lexa’s gaze harshly. “The Commander does nothing to protect the Coalition,” and Nia sweeps her hand towards Clarke. “Wanheda has fought for the Coalition. She fought the Mountain Men, she defeated the Mountain. And she has continued to do so,” and Nia stands. “You are weak, Heda Lexa,” and Clarke thinks she knows what comes next. “You are a fool,” Nia spits.

Titus steps forward, but Clarke sees Lexa’s hand rise in warning, her gaze not wavering from Nia’s. 

“Today is judgement day,” Nia says, her voice unwavering now, her eyes sweeping the room as she eyes the many who are present. “The Commander does nothing to protect her own people. You expect other clans to be safe? To rely on the aid of the Coalition if even her own Clan is not safe?” and Nia stands now, her lips pulling up into a sneer, the scars on her face glinting in the light of the torches that burn and flicker. “I call for a vote of no confidence.”

Clarke’s ears take in the subtle agreement from some of the clans, she feels the ripple of anger that burns ever quietly within them, the Mountain Men’s last attack opening old wounds, old angers and hatreds. And Clarke hears some agree, she sees an ambassador stand, his eyes only once moving from between Nia to Lexa before he steels himself. 

“Commander no longer,” he says. 

And others rise too, Clarke hears his words echoed slowly as more ambassadors take a stand, as more find agreement with the words Nia was woven through their minds.

Titus leans into Lexa quickly, quiet words hissed to her, but Clarke watches as Lexa merely takes them in before waving him away, her eyes never leaving Nia’s. 

And as Clarke’s eyes bore into the side of Lexa’s head, she feels the last of the ambassadors rise, their words repeated until all clans comes to a stand, even the Trikru ambassador rises reluctantly, his eyes downcast as he clenches his fists. 

“None of us want war,” Nia sneers. “But Azgeda will defend itself from enemies if it must,” and she raises her chin in defiance. “Commander no longer.”

“We both know what you want, Nia,” Lexa answers, and she pauses for only a moment before she rises, her feet taking her down the few steps before she comes to a pause before Nia. “If you think me unfit to command, issue the challenge and let’s get on with it,” she finishes with a hiss.

“Very well,” and Nia meets Lexa’s hardened gaze with her own. “You are challenged.”

“I accept your challenge,” and Lexa’s words come lowly, they come quietly. But they ring out into the silence as the ambassadors quiet and as they stare at the two women who now stand in the centre of the room.

Titus moves then, his eyes narrowed, his brows furrowed and his gaze hardened.

“So be it,” he says into the silence. “Single combat. Warrior against warrior. To the death,” and Titus looks between Nia and Lexa for a moment, and Clarke sees the strumming of the pulse that beats against his neck and the strain in his shoulders. “Heda Lexa. Who will fight for you?” he questions.

“I am the Commander,” Lexa says, her chin rising defiantly once more. “No one fights for me.”

And as Lexa’s words leave her lips, Clarke sees Titus deflate slightly, her words clearly not tempering the worry that must weave through his mind. She even sees Gustus grinding his teeth from where he stands by her throne, his fist clenched around the knife at his belt as he stares down Teril who begins to slowly move forward and towards Nia’s side.

“Kwin Nia,” and Titus looks to Nia, the woman smiling more freely now. “Who do you choose to be your champion?”

The room deadens, and Clarke feels the beating of her heart, the strumming of her pulse and the aches and pains that litter her body. She sees Teril come to a stop besides Nia, his eyes tracking every movement Lexa makes, the hand she favours, the foot she leads with and the way her balance shifts ever so slightly as she takes in the large man and the knife strapped to his ribs and the scar that peeks out from the collar of his furs. 

And so Nia smiles, she shifts her stance ever so slightly, her eyes moving to Teril as she takes him in. And as her lips part, and as words form, Clarke feels her heart freeze.

“Wanheda,” Nia smiles. “Clarke Kom Azgeda.”


	16. Chapter 16

Their eyes meet for a moment, and she knows it only lasts a fraction of a second, but she knows it feels an age. Costia eyes the way her feet move, the way her stance changes and the way the blade sings through the air before her. And the woman lunges, her feet kick up the iced rock in distraction and she swipes her sword.

And Costia waits. Her gaze hardens and she pauses for only long enough that the woman has committed to the attack and then Costia moves. Her sword slashes out with a ferocity, her gaze snaps to the hand that moves to the woman’s belt as she goes to draw her knife, and Costia moves with her, her feet kicking out at the woman’s leg before they crash together. 

Costia feels the gentle prickle of the blade as it snakes against the forearm she sacrifices in order to grasp the woman’s hand as it closes around her knife. Costia’s head snaps forward hard enough for the woman to curse out, blood already wetting her lips, but Costia spares her hardly a thought as she slips her arm under the woman’s chin, as she jerks back harshly and as she knees her in the ribs. 

And the woman crumples, she scrambles on the ice ground beneath her feet and she tries to find her feet, but Costia pounces, her sword slashes out at the woman’s own, the blow enough to rip it from the woman’s grasp before Costia kicks her in the face and settles on a heaving chest, the woman’s eye swollen, her nose broken and her face bloodied.

And so Costia plunges her sword through the woman’s chest with a grimace. But her head snaps up at the sound of the creaking of a bow string and so she dives, she feels the whistling of the arrow as it just misses her, and so Costia rolls, hand snatching her own bow from where it lies on the ground, and as her back slides on the ground she swivels, she draws and she fires back in the direction the arrow had come. 

And then she runs.

Costia’s feet move swiftly, her gaze searching around her for movement. An arrow just barely snaps past her head, but she spares it hardly a thought as she eyes a rock that juts out from the ground, and so she runs for it, fingers already beginning to knock her second arrow as she jumps from the rock, her time in the air enough to twist her body and fire back behind her before she hits the cold bite of the ground with a roll that brings her back to her feet as she ducks a third arrow.

She sees a flash of movement ahead though, and she recognises the dark braids, and the cunning face that flits through the trees. 

“Talanah!” Costia shouts, her voice carrying over the wind. 

And Costia sees Talanah’s head swivel to her, their eyes meeting over the distance, and so Costia dives once more, the snapping of another arrow heard over the crunch underfoot. Talanah breaks through the small trees that keep them apart, her eyes angry in the waning light as day begins to bleed away. 

But as Talanah leaps over a fallen tree she slips, the ice underfoot giving way and she crashes to the ground with a curse and a snarl as her forehead bounces off the ground. Costia comes to a skidding stop, hands already gripping Talanah by the elbow as she begins to lift her to her feet. But she senses the arrow that snaps forward and so she pushes Talanah away and drops to the ground, and she feels the arrow that snaps past her face, the feathers brushing against her lip.

Costia spins on the ground as she knocks another arrow and fires into the distance. But she feels the looming presence and she hears the rocks that skittle and so she dives, she curses out and swings her bow behind her in distraction before she rolls to her feet, sword already being drawn once more as she comes face to face with another Azgeda hunter, his furs white, his face unmarked. 

Costia lunges, her sword swings out briefly before she slips to her knees and slides under his own slash, but as she rises behind him, her sword already striking for his back, she feels another body crash into her from behind. Costia’s elbow snaps out, she feels the crunch of it connect with a person’s face, and she feels their grasp on her lessen enough, and so she draws her knife, sinks it into a thigh and pushes away. 

Costia only manages three paces before the second assailant moves, her knife still embedded in their thigh. But the first man snarls out before lunging for her, his sword striking hers brutally as he begins to loom over her. And Costia feels the weight of his body bare down on her as she blocks strike after strike, as her feet skid out from beneath her and as she moves further and further backwards. 

“Talanah!” Costia shouts over the clanging of metal against metal, her eyes frantic as she searches for her friend, the man blocks her vision, but not before the sees the second pull her knife from their thigh with a grimace.

Costia ducks a slash of a sword, the blade whistling through the air, and she sees Talanah then, a cut on her cheek, sword in hand as she comes to her feet, eyes darting between the two Azgeda warriors. 

“Talanah!” Costia shouts once more, her sword deflecting another harsh blow. “The second one,” Costia urges as she sees the second Azgeda warrior look Talanah’s way with a lifting of her lips. 

But the first Azgeda blocks her vision once more, and so she dives under a harsh strike, her fist grabbing at the rocks and stone and gravel underfoot, and then she throws it into his face, but he steps back, his hand coming to shield his eyes as he slashes out quickly to halt her advance in the moment she steals. 

And so Costia runs once more, her eyes scanning the rocks that begin to bleed into trees. And she spares Talanah only one last panicked look, uncertainty and confusion colouring her thoughts as she sees Talanah merely bend down and pick up a bow at her feet.

Costia vaults over a large rock, and as she hits the ground she rolls, she slides and she ducks under a branch, her eyes moving from tree to tree, rock to rock, shadow to shadow. An arrow whizzes past her again, and she hears the creaking of another being drawn. And her legs burn, her lungs burn and her chest heaves painfully, the frantic run leaving her breathless. An arrow snaps past her once more, this one smacking into a tree trunk just past her head, but Costia ignores it, she changes direction and begins running left. An arrow snaps past her, this one slamming into the ground just past her, and so she darts right, she ducks under another low branch before leaping over a fallen tree as another arrow flashes past her. 

And one last arrow whizzes past her, and as it flashes before her gaze she thinks it burns, she thinks it breathes fire and bleeds a smoky trail. And it slams into a tree in front of her with an explosion of blinding red smoke. And as Costia dives through it she feels it burn her lungs, she feels it smother her breathing and sting her eyes and so she coughs, she feels it rip into her body and prickle against her skin. And she knows it for what it is. Her hand comes up to cover her mouth, but she knows it must be too late, her legs already numbing, her fingers already becoming useless and tame, and as she stumbles she thinks she hears the loud thump of feet that chase after her.

Costia stumbles once, twice, three times before she comes to her knees in the iced ground, the sharp stone digging into her knees as she doubles over and begins to wretch and gag on the poison that fills her lungs. 

“She can fight,” comes a low voice from behind her, the Azgeda warrior’s feet now louder, closer. 

“There’s a reason the Commander took a fancy to her,” the second voice says.

“It was smart to separate them using a pauna,” the first voice says as it comes to a stop behind her. 

And Costia feels rough hands grip her by the shoulders and push her face first into the ground, her arms being tied behind her back harshly. But she struggles, or as much as she can. Costia feels herself turned around though, the sun shining sharply in her eyes as she comes face to face with the man, his eyes dark and fierce as his face looms over her. 

“You’re lucky you’re wanted alive, girl,” he says. “Our Kwin has plans for you.”

But Costia grimaces, and she knows what waits for her, and so she spits in his face and slams her head forward with what little strength she has left. 

“Talanah will kill you,” she says, her voice hoarse and dried.

“Talanah won’t come and save you,” he laughs quietly as he drops her back to the ground, hand wiping his face, her strike barely a nuisance. “Won’t you, Talanah?” 

And as Costia’s gaze begins to blur and fade she sees Talanah come to stand over her, the sun a halo that crowns her head. 

“Talanah,” Costia whispers her friend’s name, but as the last of her vision fades, Costia’s thoughts turn to the hunt and the pelt she had promised to return to Lexa with.

 

* * *

 

Costia’s eyes open slowly to a darkness. It takes her a long moment before the memories return, before she remembers where she must be, whose hands she has fallen into. She feels her hands tied behind her back, the harsh rope that binds her wrists rough, and she knows it to already be bloodied and cutting into her flesh. A shiver runs through her body then, the cold bite of the stone beneath her frigid and piercing. It takes her a moment longer to realise that her eyes are blindfolded, that her feet are tied together and that she wears little more than her underclothes.

Costia groans as she tries to sit, as she shifts her body and wriggles so that she sits on her haunches awkwardly. But she hears the rustle of furs and the creaking of a chair that scrapes across the stone floor. 

“You are awake,” comes a familiar voice, but she knows it to be cold, to be detached.

“Talanah?” she croaks out quietly, but she knows her words to die lamely in the space between them. 

And it’s odd, Costia knows. She knows she should feel anger, should feel fear or hurt or uncertainty. But as she hears the slight breathing that comes from Talanah, that echoes through the room, Costia recognises the sadness that begins to well in her mind.

“Why, Talanah?” she asks quietly, her lips cracking, her voice dry, her throat rough.

“There is no Talanah,” the woman responds, and Costia knows she hears her friend stand, move to wherever the exit must be. “There never was,” and then Talanah leaves, the harsh grinding bite of a metal door scraping shut the only thing to echo.

 

* * *

 

It takes Costia a long moment to wriggle the blindfold from her eyes, but as she scrapes her face against the ground once more, her cheek now bruised, she feels the blindfold slip and then light pours into her vision. Her eyes squint fiercely as the burning of a too cold flame flickers, and her eyes take in the dungeon she finds herself in.

The ground beneath her seems ever constant of ice, cracks in the stone that are filled with the freeze so common to Azgeda. She eyes the breath that fogs in wisps as it exits her lips and she gazes at the door, rusted and heavyset, that lies in a wall.

Her eyes fall to a bucket in the corner and she knows it for what it is, and then her gaze settles on the plate that sits on the chair in front of her.

But in this moment, Costia doesn’t feel hungry as she eyes the small plate of dried meats and bread. And she knows she doesn’t feel afraid, she doesn’t feel anger. And it’s regret, she knows, it’s a regret of things left unsaid, of truths left unvoiced, of futures she knows herself not to share any longer.

She spoons a small bite into her mouth, her eyes following a snow flake that flutters down from the ceiling above her, a small space filled with metal bars that keep her sealed inside. 

She knows that one day the torture will begin, and that the pain will start to never end. 

 

* * *

 

The freeze bites into her flesh and burns her awake violently. A gasp and a shrill shout of surprise rips from her lips as the ice water pours over her, as a foot slides her across the floor and as a hand grips the back of her neck before lifting her to her knees.

“Eat,” the man says, his gaze hard in the light of the flickering flame, and then his pushes a small slice of dried and stale bread against her lips, the hard of it splitting her lip once more.  

Costia chokes on the mouthful he forces past her lips, but she chews, his fingers gripping her cheeks forcefully until he is sure she has finished. And as he sees her swallow painfully he brings a waterskin to her lips, tilts her head backwards once more and pours it past her lips, the liquid spluttering down her chin as she gags on it for a moment.

It only lasts another moment, but he pulls away, eyes only once flickering over her state of undress before he stands and exits through the door, the clanging rust of it echoing out behind him. 

And Costia waits. She waits until she knows his steps to fade, until his presence no longer is felt. Costia turns to the wall, her fingers beginning to scrape at the stone and the mortar until the stone gives way to reveal a small nail, its end blunted, dried blood crusted and mixed with the rust that covers it.

She rises steadily, eyes trained on the door for a moment longer before she runs to the wall before kicking off it and leaping upwards, her fingers snaring at the bars that keep her inside the dungeon. Costia hangs for a moment, her muscles protesting the exertion, and she waits. She waits for long enough that she knows her movements remain undetected. And then she begins to slip the nail between the furthest most bar and the stone, and she listens carefully as she begins to saw and drive the nail, the quiet scraping echoing out far too loudly for her comfort, but she doesn’t stop, and she knows all it will take is a few more moments, a few more minutes of muscle stretching motion. 

And she feels it.

The nail sinks deeper than before, and she feels the mortar and the stone give way, and she feels the bar begin to turn. And she smiles. The last of the bars comes loose and so she wriggles it free before dropping to the ground stealthily, eyes snapping to the door for a moment. And as sounds remain quiet, as her disturbances remain undetected she kicks off from the wall once more, hands snaring the bars, and she repeats the process, each bar sliding free easily until all that remains is the narrow open window that shines a beam of light down into her cell, the grey of a morning too early for many to wake. 

Costia runs up the wall once more, her legs kicking off it with a renewed hope, and she smiles widely, the dark curls of her hair bouncing as her fingers grip the edge of the small space, and she ignores the bite of sharp stone that cuts her fingers, that bloodies her palm.

And so she pulls her self up, the cold chill of Azgeda winters seeping into her bones. It only takes her a moment longer before she swings a leg up, her heel hooking through the small opening and then she pulls herself through the space. 

The wind breathes against her face and she glances around herself for a moment, eyes sharp as she takes in the open courtyard, snow littering the ground. She eyes the stone wall at the far end, its length stretching out either side before being swallowed by mountain ridges that hug the small village she is sure she finds herself in. Her gaze snaps to the rising sun, and she peers at it long enough for a direction to be discerned and then Costia runs. Her feet sting against the iced rock and snow underfoot, her body shivers in the cold, but she runs. She sees a small guard house that sits at the base of the wall and she knows she will find furs and clothes, weapons and perhaps even supplies for her to steal. 

Her feet come to a quiet stop, and her eyes peer through a crack in the door to see candles flickering inside. Costia peers once behind her, and she grimaces as she sees her footprints shining in the snow, but she knows she must move, and so she pushes the door open slowly, her eyes squinting in the dark of the small guard house.

Costia slips inside as she peers back outside briefly, and as the door clicks shut she turns, eyes already scanning for a weapon and furs. Her eyes land on a pack, its content spilling onto a table, and she eyes the half eaten loaf of bread and the slices of meat and dried fish, and she darts forward. A groan leaves her lips as she sinks her teeth into the meats first, hand already stuffing the remainder of the food into the pack, and she smiles as her eyes land on a small dagger, and so Costia wipes the back of her hand across her lips as she snatches the dagger from the table. 

It only takes her moments longer to find a heavyset fur coat, and as she dons it she feels her body begin to shiver less, her exposed skin welcoming the warmth of the thick fur that now rests over her shoulders and drapes her body.

But she hears it.

Costia whips around, her dagger slicing at the presence she feels behind her. But the person shifts with her attack, her blade just barely missing an arm before a hand punches her harshly across the jaw, the force of it knocking her backwards against the table edge.

“I did not expect you to escape so fast,” the man says easily, his eyes tracking her movements as she scrambles to her feet. “Some thought you would take a full moon. Other’s thought even two. But here you are. After only ten days,” and he gestures around them. “You did not think it was too ea—”

But Costia lunges, she kicks a chair at him and she stabs the knife forward, and as her feet leave the air she shifts her weight, tucks her chin down and slams her body into the man's chest, and she smiles as she hears him gasp out, her attack ferocious and desperate. Her knife slashes out once more, and she knows she feels it find flesh as he grunts in pain, and then she runs. Costia leaps over the chair, fingers already reaching for the handle of the door.

But she feels herself slammed into the ground, the man’s hand gripping her by the hair as he drags her backwards before lifting her and slamming her onto the table forcefully. The strikes across her face come hard and fast and repeated, his studded glove tearing at her flesh, and she gasps out in pain as she feels her lip split and his fingers tighten around her throat.

“I see why the Commander likes you,” he sneers before pulling her from the table, kneeing her in the ribs and dragging her out of the guardhouse by the hair, her feet scrambling to take her weight as she curses and splutters and winces between the sharp tugs of her hair and the iron grip around her throat. “Don’t try to escape again,” he finishes as he stops by the opening in the ground before kicking her through it, the fall enough to knock consciousness from Costia’s broken body.

 

* * *

 

Costia wakes to the loud scraping of metal against stone and the harsh glare of torch light held too close to her face. Her body recoils from the presence and her eyes adjust to the closeness of a face that peers at her from above.

“Costia,” the woman says simply, her gaze moving over her exposed flesh, the bruises and cuts and marred flesh that remains ever frayed and broken to the elements. “Tell me something,” and the woman kneels to eye level, her eyes turning kind, her hand gentle as it takes Costia by the chin, a thumb brushing away dirt and dried blood that cakes her lip. “Tell me anything.”

But Costia remains silent, her eyes glaring harshly at the woman for a long moment, the swelling of an eye blurring her vision and stinging her eye.

“You are strong,” the woman says once more, her head tilting to the side as she eyes the chest binding that tatters across Costia’s chest, and the small shorts that cling to her. “It is a shame you let yourself waste the most fruitful of your years.”

But Costia remains silent, her gaze hardening as she eyes the guards who stand at the door, hands on weapons as they stare at her steadily.

“The guards have told you what Lexa has done?” the woman asks quietly. And as Costia remains silent still, the woman merely smiles grimly. “They have told you,” and the woman’s head tilts in thought. “A Coalition. A truce. Peace,” and the woman snorts. “Perhaps she did not really care for you if she has accomplished so much already without you by her side.”

And Costia lunges. Her hand snaps forward, fingers closing around the woman’s throat, but the woman sees the strike, she smiles and she leans back far enough that Costia’s fingers close around air before the woman’s hand grips her wrist and tugs sharply. And pain explodes up Costia’s arm as she feels her limb twisted behind her back as the woman forces her into the ground, a knee now digging into her neck, her cheek pressed into the ground.

“She doesn’t even search for you,” Nia says sadly. “I would be angry, too.”

 

* * *

 

Costia runs. Her feet take her further and further and further. The ice blinds her vision, the snow that billows around her buffets her body and freezes her hair and chills her limbs. Blood cakes her fingers, her cheek stings and her lip twinges in pain. She feels the cut in her thigh protest the exertion and she feels her feet as they suck against the snow as she urges herself forward. But she knows it to be a fool’s errand, her attempt to escape just another pointless endeavour. If only because she isn’t even quite sure which direction she travels. If only because trying to escape in a blizzard is perhaps merely going to kill her. 

But she knows it preferable to the pain, to the torment and the aches and the beatings and the humiliation. And so she runs. 

An arrow whizzes past her head and she cries out in surprise. Her feet skid across an icy sheet, and she feels herself slip, she feels herself slide and wobble and crash against the snow. Costia crashes into the ice, she feels the sharpness of it bite into her flesh and she knows she bites into her tongue as her chin collides with the ground. 

She feels a weight settle on her lower legs and she knows her captor catches her. But she struggles. Her legs kick out weakly, and she lashes out with an arm, the limb thin, scarred and useless. And, as a hood is wrapped around her face, Costia knows she will simply wake up in a too cold, too unkind dungeon. 

And so, as pain explodes across the side of her head, Costia lets consciousness flee from her broken body.

 

* * *

 

She wakes to the cold scraping of metal against metal, and as her eyes open, and as she wraps her arms around her naked body she recoils from Nia who comes to kneel before her. 

“Have you heard?” Nia asks, but her voice remains cold, detached, or perhaps not quite, and Costia knows she sees fury, anger, hurt and disgust etched into harsh eyes and across a scarred face. “Do you know what she did?” Nia hisses, her fingers gripping Costia by the throat as she lifts her face. “Azgeda will face all eleven other clans. Or we surrender,” Nia spits. 

But Costia remains silent, her eyes hardening, her cheek burning, the scar that burrows through her cheek and dips into her lip an ever constant pain.

“Bring it,” Nia says quietly, her gaze never leaving Costia’s, and Costia’s eyes snap to a guard who approaches, a large box held in his hands that he lowers to the ground gingerly, and Costia recognises the red that splashes against the sides, that seeps through the cracks.

“I must admit, Costia,” Nia says kindly now, hands already opening the box. “It took me a while to find a suitable substitute,” and Costia’s eyes widen as Nia begins to lift what the box hides. “I wanted to make sure the hair was perfect. That everything was perfect,” and Nia smiles as she lowers the head before Costia. “What do you think Lexa will do when I have your head delivered to her?”

 

* * *

 

Costia wakes to the early morning clanging of metal against metal, and as her eyes open she knows she senses the other presence in her cell that lingers just past her vision.

“You haven’t tried to escape again,” Nia says, her eyes careful as they move across Costia’s body and the shivers that seem to be a constant companion. “You are learning.” 

But Costia remains quiet, her silence a defiance she knows she will not give up.

“But you will not try to escape again,” Nia continues evenly, and Costia can’t help but to feel her eyebrows quirk together slightly. 

Nia must see the motion though because her lips twitch at the corners. 

“You won’t,” and Nia kneels before her. “Lexa would have told you she wanted to bring the clans together, that it was a dream of hers,” and Nia holds Costia’s gaze for a long while. “She has accomplished something no Commander before her has,” and Nia sneers slightly. “And when I delivered her your head? She did not break the Coalition,” and Nia turns sad just once. “But if you were to return? If you were to escape? If she was to realise she gave you up for dead all this time? Maybe she would seek revenge,” and Nia shrugs. “You will not try to escape again,” and she leans forward, her breath now ghosting against Costia’s cheek. “You will not try to escape because you would be the cause for the Coalition's collapse. Because she loved you.”

 

* * *

 

Costia’s eyes gaze out the window for a long moment. Her sight trails after a bird she spies soaring through the air, and as the mop drags along the ground she thinks of an escape, she thinks of the attempts she has made, the months she is sure have passed. But she knows and she feels the guard who remains ever constant by her side, their vision tuned to her movements, to her steps and her thoughts.

“Move,” he says simply as he pushes her forward, and she grimaces as she trips, as she comes to her knees on the ground, the stone biting into her flesh. “Get up,” he says, his feet stopping somewhere just past her vision as she struggles back to her feet.

And so Costia turns to look down the hallway, the wet stone already beginning to dry. And as she peers down the other direction she sees the dirt and the dust and the mud that the Azgeda warriors bring through the guardhouse each morning. 

And so she sighs, grits her teeth and begins once more. Her silence the only form of rebellion she dares to show.

 

* * *

 

Costia wakes to the banging on her door, to the clanging of it as it opens in a burst of anger and violence. 

“Get up,” the guard hisses his eyes only once glancing at her state of undress as she scrambles for her clothes. “Warriors from Azgeda arrive. You are needed in the kitchens,” he finishes before gripping her by the upper arm and dragging her out of her room, her furs barely donned and strapped to her body.

 

* * *

 

Costia watches as warriors stream into the throne room, and she eyes the Trikru messenger that stands nervously by Nia’s side, his eyes moving from Azgeda warrior to Azgeda warrior. But Costia’s eyes move to the doors once more as another Azgeda warrior strides through quickly, the blonde of her hair shining a golden shade in the torch light that flickers. Costia watches as she takes her place by two other women, their scars similar, but the blonde’s fresher, more raw, more red. She watches as one of the other women leans in closer, whispers words to the blonde before straightening her back as Nia begins to address the warriors once more. 

And so Costia turns back to the floor she sweeps, an ache in her chest as she senses the Trikru messenger slip from the throne room quickly, his desire to return home lingering within her own chest.

 

* * *

 

Word of the Mountain’s fall shocks her, it stuns her and brings tears of joy and sadness and longing and pride to her eyes. And as Costia wraps her arms around herself, as she curls into herself and wraps a rough fur around her body she imagines it to be the embrace she can’t quite remember anymore, can’t quite recall anymore.

But she knows herself thankful that Lexa has survived yet another campaign, another bloody war, another day without her by her side.

 

* * *

 

Nia calls her to the throne room early in the morning, and as she makes her way through the harsh cold of the building, a guard ever constant by her side, she feels the worry gnaw at her, a summoning never a good omen.

The doors to the throne room open for her though, and as she steps through she hears them close once more, and she eyes the back of a man who stands before Nia who sits in her throne. And as Costia begins to make her way towards where Nia sits, she feels her blood freeze and her heart still at the words she hears.

“—exa,” and the man nods once. “Yes, Kwin Nia. I am sure. I saw them long enough to know that they did not speak of war meetings or clan matters.”

“Lexa has let herself become weak once more,” Nia sneers, her eyes now snapping to Costia’s. “It would seem that she has chosen a new person to warm her bed,” and Costia knows her eyes close briefly, and she knows Nia’s lips turn up.

And so Costia’s eyes open, and she watches as Nia’s fingers tap against the hard edge of her throne, as thoughts drift through her mind and as she lets the silence linger for a long while.

“You are sure?” Nia asks just once more, her eyes hard in the torch light, and Costia sees the man ponder her words for just a breath. 

“Yes, Kwin Nia,” he answers. “I am sure of it.”

And Costia feels a snapping in her mind, and she knows her lip trembles now. And perhaps she had known it would one day happen. If only because she died years ago, if only because her love had perished lifetimes ago. But she knows that now, as she faces her torment, she feels the ache.

“Thank you,” Nia says. “You may leave,” and the man bows his head once before ducking out the room. 

And Costia watches him retreat, and as she eyes the lack of scars on his face, and the way his eyes shift ever so slightly, memories of Talanah, of a friend, of someone she thinks was never a friend, echo through her mind.

“Leave us,” Nia calls out, and Costia knows Nia speaks to her guards, the ones who remain quietly in the shadows, who watch her every move.

It doesn’t last long, but as Costia watches the guards slip from the throne room, she feels her skin prickle, her lips tremble, and her jaw clench tightly, and as Nia’s piercing blue gaze drills into her, Costia finds herself not quite able to meet her gaze any longer.

“How does it feel?” Nia says, her voice lilting at the end quietly. “How does it feel to know you were so easily replaced?”


	17. Chapter 17

Clarke’s eyes widen as Nia smiles and looks to her. She feels the tension build in her mind, and she senses the quiet that settles over the throne room. Clarke’s eyes track Teril as confusion flashes across his face for only a moment before he stands back, his gaze tuned to Clarke’s oddly, his eyes moving from hers to the bloodied furs on her shoulders. 

“So be it,” Titus says, his voice carrying out through the silence. “The challenge will take place tomorrow at the sun’s highest point.”

And Clarke sees Gustus clench his jaw tightly as he stares angrily at Teril, the Azgeda guard content to merely hover somewhere behind Nia now, his eyes taking in those who murmur words of confusion, or those who nod their heads in approval of the challenge. Clarke feels Torvun lurking close by too, and she knows she doesn’t miss the dissatisfaction that she feels emanating from him.

“Very well,” Lexa says after a moment, her gaze only once meeting Clarke’s. 

And then Lexa’s hand rises, her fingers twitching once as she dismisses the many people in the throne room.

 

* * *

 

Clarke’s mind worries, her eyes track the movements of warriors on the training grounds, her eyes follow the white furs of Azgeda who crash against each other, who throw friend over shoulder, who trip and disarm and mime killing blows, their eyes ever angry as warriors from other clans linger too close. 

Clarke sees Ontari walking up to her harshly, her feet kicking at anything that crosses her path, and she sees Entani hobbling behind awkwardly, her ribs nowhere near ready for her to be moving about.

“What have you done,” Ontari hisses as she comes to a stop in front of where Clarke sits on the ground, her body blocking the sun as it begins its descent through the sky.

“What have I done?” Clarke asks as she looks up at Ontari, to find her face sweating, her furs loosened around her neck and shoulders.

“You challenged the Commander,” Ontari hisses once more, hands now on her hips as Entani comes to an awkwardly shuffling stop behind her.

“I did not, Kwin Nia did,” Clarke says as she rises. “Follow me,” she says after a moment, fingers gripping Ontari by the shoulder as she begins dragging her away from the training grounds. Torvun follows, his hands reaching out to help Entani, only for the wounded healer to curse him out loudly.

They walk for a moment until Clarke rounds a corner and stops behind a large copse of trees that lines the training grounds before she turns on Ontari, the woman still with hands fisted on her hips as she glares harshly at Clarke.

“Look, On—”

“I do not care,” Ontari cuts in. “You will kill her,” she says simply.

“What?” 

“Why would you agree to fight her? Why would you even think to do it?” and Ontari’s jaw clenches even tighter as she kicks at a pebble, and Clarke watches it bounce across the ground. “You will kill her,” and Ontari nods to herself.

Entani and Torvun come around the corner then, and Torvun sighs as his eyes land on Ontari who stands, feet planted firmly on the ground as she glares at Clarke.

“She can use two blades,” Ontari continues, her eyes looking up into the sky. “Her fingers are scarred on both hands so she is proficient with both hands. She will have an advantage in range, so you must get close to use your knife. But if she has two swords you will have the advantage, she will not be able to use them if you close the distance. If she has one you must be faster than her. You are shorter. Use it to your advantage. Let her tire before you attack.”

Clarke sighs as Ontari continues to outline Lexa’s combat style, the things she thinks the Commander will do, will use, and as Ontari continues to talk rapidly, Clarke eyes Entani who stares at her, eyes narrowed in thought.

“Stop, Ontari,” Clarke says, her hand reaching out to shake Ontari’s shoulder.

Ontari mouth snaps shut, her eyes glaring at Clarke for a long moment as her thoughts settle.

“Everything’s going to be ok,” Clarke says quietly, her eyes beseeching as she lets her gaze hold Ontari’s.

 

* * *

 

Clarke paces back and forth through her quarters, her body weary, yet her mind remains attentive. She kicks at a fur underfoot for a moment before sighing and setting herself in a chair roughly, a hand rubbing across her face as she leans back. She shrugs the furs off her shoulders then, the sun already dipping below the horizon. Clarke lets her mind wander for long moments, her thoughts drifting to Nia’s games, to Nia’s issuing of the challenge, and to Nia appointing her as Azgeda champion. Clarke thinks that in the morning she will talk to Lexa, will discuss exactly how to handle such a situation, but in this moment she feels too tired to really comprehend, to analyse and to strategise more than just knowing that she won’t actually take Lexa’s life.

But a low knock echoes through her room, and as Clarke’s eyes open a crack she thinks she sees the shadows of people that linger by her door.

“Clarke,” Lexa’s voice comes quietly, firmly, and so Clarke sighs as she rises and pads her way to the door, and she opens it to reveal Lexa standing in front of her, Shana by her side.

“Come in,” Clarke says, gaze briefly looking to Shana who merely bows her head before turning and taking position by the door, and Clarke sees Torvun and Gustus lingering close by, too, their bodies framing the door, their gazes aimed down the hallway.

“We must talk, Clarke,” Lexa says as she steps into Clarke’s quarters, the door closing behind her.

“Yeah,” and Clarke shrugs as she sits back down in the chair.

“Did you find evidence of Nia’s treachery?” Lexa says as she comes to a stop in the middle of the room.

“Not exactly,” Clarke answers, mind already turning to Jaha who remains prisoner at Arkadia. “Jaha says Nia only communicated through a bird and letters so we have no solid proof,” and Clarke watches as Lexa nods once before glancing around Clarke’s quarters briefly.

“I did not think he would be able to find evidence,” Lexa says evenly.

“You didn’t think he’d succeed?” Clarke questions, her eyes narrowing.

“No,” and Lexa faces her fully, hands coming to be clasped behind her back. “I did not think Nia would allow any evidence to exist.”

“So what?” and Clarke finds herself standing now, a frustration beginning to bubble under the surface. “You just let her send me on a wild goose chase?” 

“I do not know what that is, Clarke,” Lexa says, an eyebrow raising as Clarke’s eyes roll. “But if it means your task was pointless, then that is not correct.”

“It’s starting to sound like it was,” Clarke grumbles, her arms crossing over her chest.

“It is not,” Lexa reassures. “It means we must rely on another plan.”

“It’d be good if we had another plan,” Clarke counters.

“We do,” Lexa says.

“Explain,” Clarke says simply, and she thinks Lexa’s next words will leave her unimpressed, will leave her more frustrated and annoyed.

“I work with Prince Roan,” Lexa says.

And Clarke looks at her for a long, silent moment, her eyes narrowing even further, and she knows a scowl begins to crease her forehead.

“What?”

“Prince Roan and I work together to overthrow Nia.”

“Excuse me?” Clarke says as she steps forward.

“Prince Roan has been in hiding while he builds his forces.”

“Get out,” Clarke snaps, her finger jabbing Lexa in the chest firmly.

“Clarke, le—”

“—Get out,” Clarke jabs Lexa once more as she begins stalking forward, and Lexa begins to back towards the door. “Get. Out,” Clarke hisses as Lexa’s back thumps against the wood, the green of her eyes widening only a fraction as she takes in Clarke’s seething gaze.

And so Clarke watches as Lexa pushes off from the door slightly, as she nods to herself once before she turns and grips the handle, just a quick glance cast over her shoulder before she slips out of Clarke’s quarters.

Clarke watches the door for a few long seconds, her mind turning and her jaw clenching tightly as she glares at the dark of the wood. But she sighs, leans her forehead against the cold of the door and breathes in deeply. 

“Come back,” she calls out, her ears picking up the slight pause in retreating steps from the other side of the door. “Come back,” Clarke says more loudly now.

Clarke steps back as she hears the footsteps approach once more, and the door opens tentatively to reveal Lexa standing there once more, her chin raised defiantly, but Clarke thinks she sees a small admonishment living in the woman’s gaze.

“Get in,” Clarke says with a jerk of her chin once.

And so Lexa steps over the threshold as she closes the door before turning back to Clarke.

“You’re lucky I like you or else I’d actually try and kill you tomorrow,” Clarke begins. 

“I do not think you could defeat me,” Lexa says simply.

“Don’t you try and sass me, Lexa,” and Clarke steps forward slowly. “I’m still mad at you.”

And Lexa looks away for a moment, her eyes peering into a flame that flickers in the corner of Clarke’s quarters.

“Do you know how much stress you’ve put on me?” Clarke says as she pauses in her steps, just a small space between them now. “Do you know how many nights I’ve spent awake trying to figure out what Nia’s game is?” 

“I can imagine, Clarke,” Lexa says, and Clarke knows she hears the remorse that lingers in Lexa’s voice. 

“How long?” Clarke asks, but she thinks she knows how long.

“Since Roan left for Azgeda lands,” Lexa replies. 

Clarke sighs for a long moment, her hand coming to rub against her cheek in frustration.

“I don’t like you keeping things from me, Lexa,” Clarke says into the silence. And she knows Lexa feels the admonishment, her gaze not quite meeting Clarke’s. “I’m mad at you, but for now I’m putting it aside, ok?” and she sees Lexa’s gaze shift to meet hers. “We need to figure things out,” and Clarke thinks Lexa knows she talks of the challenge and the fight.

“I believe we should make it as realistic as possible, Clarke,” Lexa says simply. 

“How?” Clarke asks as she worries her lip.

“It is simple, Clarke,” Lexa says with a shrug before she begins to move further into the room, her gaze moving to Clarke’s furs that rest atop the chair. “You try to kill me,” and Lexa meets her gaze.

“You’re cocky, aren’t you,” Clarke says as she finds herself moving deeper into the room too.

“I have trained my whole life,” Lexa answers. “I do not mean to offend, Clarke. But yes, I believe I would best you in single combat,” and Clarke snorts at Lexa’s words.

“Or,” and Clarke moves closer to Lexa. “Maybe I’ll strike you down with my power.”

“Perhaps,” and Lexa meets her gaze briefly as Clarke pushes Lexa against the edge of a table, their bodies close enough for Clarke to feel Lexa’s breath ghost against her cheek. “Clarke,” Lexa whispers quietly, and Clarke isn’t so sure whether Lexa’s words are a warning, are a statement or merely just a quiet exaltation. 

Clarke hums quietly as she lets her own breath ghost against Lexa’s neck, her lips only just brushing against the fluttering of Lexa’s pulse.

“What would you like?” Clarke whispers, her voice brushing Lexa’s ear for a moment. 

“Clarke,” Lexa whispers once more, and Clarke smiles as she feels the tension begin to leave Lexa’s shoulders, the woman’s posture relaxing slightly.

And Clarke knows she holds Lexa’s thoughts now, and so she pushes off from the table’s edge until space is created between them, her gaze wicked as she meets Lexa’s half lidded eyes and the way her lips part.

“I’m still mad at you,” Clarke says, her arms crossing over her chest as she inclines her head to the door with a smile spreading across her lips. “I need sleep,” and she sees Lexa swallow painfully, “alone,” Clarke finishes cheekily.

 

* * *

 

Clarke wakes to the gentle tapping against her door, and as she sits slowly, her eyes honing in on the entrance, she feels her fingers curl around the hilt of her blade as she rises. Clarke glances briefly over her shoulder and out the open window to find that darkness still lingers fully over Polis, the moon ever constant as it roams the night’s sky. The knock comes once more, and as Clarke approaches the door she thinks she sees Torvun’s feet shuffle slightly in the presence of whoever stands outside. Clarke opens the door quietly, her gaze narrowing to the face she sees, her hand readying the knife by her side. 

“Wanheda,” Shana whispers quietly. “Get dressed, Heda wishes for you to meet her,” and Shana smiles briefly as she hands Clarke clothes before stepping back, her gaze sent down the hallway in habit. “It is best we are not recognised.”

And so Clarke closes the door once more, her eyes taking in the dark leathers and lighter furs she holds in her hands. 

 

* * *

 

The clothes she wears pull more tightly across her body than she is used to, the furs lighter, more form fitting, the leathers thinner, more supple, but as she follows Shana’s quiet steps through Polis tower, Clarke can’t help but to notice the clothes well made, well fitted.

“She didn’t have these made for me, did she?” Clarke asks as she eyes the way the pants hug her legs evenly.

“Heda is observant,” Shana replies quietly, her gaze moving to a flickering of light under a closed door. 

“We’re not supposed to be seen, right?” Clarke asks quietly as Shana urges her into a small room, its contents dusty, and haphazard in their storage.

“We are not,” Shana replies before she moves to the far wall, her fingers ghosting against the stone for a moment before a low click echoes out through the space and a small door swings inwards to reveal a hidden passageway. “This way,” Shana says simply as she slips through first.

And so Clarke follows, and as the small door closes behind her she realises that she has entered a small stairwell, the steps fading down and into the lower levels of Polis tower, and Clarke is sure from the darkness she spies that the steps might even move below ground.

 

* * *

 

Shana walks ahead for a long while, her steps quiet, a torch lit as light begins to fade away completely. But they come to the end of the stairs, and as Clarke’s eyes squint as she gazes out around herself she finds the area to have sloping walls that curve overhead, that form tunnels that disappear into the distance. 

“How long are these tunnels?” Clarke asks, her voice echoing out around them.

“They are long,” Shana answers. “You may travel from one end of Polis and to the other without seeing daylight,” and Shana looks over her shoulder once at the way they came before turning forwards once more. “But most do not know of their existence,” Shana finishes.

“Useful,” Clarke says as she eyes rubble underfoot, and as she hears the quiet drip of water that echoes out around her.

They take another corner, and as Clarke rounds the bend she spies a light that dances in the distance, and as she squints she sees two figures that stand close together. And as Clarke approaches she begins to recognise the furs Roan wears, the way her stands, and the way his voice carries over the distance quietly. And it takes Clarke a moment longer to register that the second person is Lexa, her usual clothing different, her hair not braided the same.

“Prince Roan,” Clarke says tightly as she comes to a stop opposite him, his eyes moving over the healing cut on her forehead and to the Trikru clothes she wears.

“Clarke,” he says simply. 

“You’re here,” Clarke says with a gesture around them. “And not dead.”

“No,” and Clarke knows she hears the humour in Roan’s voice.

“It’s not funny,” she says, her chin rising. “We agreed to work together but you made plans behind my back,” and Clarke thinks she sees Lexa’s eyes roll slightly.

“It is wise to plan for emergencies,” Roan replies easily.

“Maybe for you,” Clarke says. “Was it because you didn’t trust me? Didn’t think I could keep a secret?” 

“No,” and Roan’s voice comes gravelly, rough and even. “My mother is quite good at reading people,” he says. “You will forgive me for not wanting to risk everything on one person,” and he steps closer, his eyes hardening slightly. “You are smart enough to realise that.”

“We are here to work together,” Lexa cuts in. 

“Yeah,” and Clarke eyes Roan for another long moment. “Fine,” and Clarke shrugs before turning her attention to Lexa. “I’m here now, what’s the plan?”

“We must fight,” Lexa begins, her gaze just once turning to Shana who has her back to them as her gaze looks out the way they had come. “Whoever the champion is will demand that the loser submit,” and Clarke doesn’t miss the subtle look Lexa gives her pointedly at the mention of the loser.

“They’re allowed to do that?” Clarke asks. 

“Yes,” Lexa says simply. “But most do not submit because their clan leader would have them sentenced to death for dishonouring their clan.”

“Great,” Clarke says. “How does that help me?” and she sees the twitching of Lexa’s lips.

“Once you submit then Nia’s game will have failed. I will still hold power, and Roan will then announce his presence and issue his own challenge,” and Lexa shrugs once. “It will be simple, Clarke.”

“So you’ve both decided that I’m going to be bait?” Clarke asks, her eyes narrowing as she looks from Roan to Lexa.

“Do you see another way of Azgeda changing hands without bloodshed?” Roan questions. 

And as Clarke thinks over his questions she knows war would be costly, she knows many would die. But most of all, she knows she does not want Azgeda blood to be shed further than it already has.

“Where’s Echo?” Clarke asks instead, her avoidance of the question answer enough.

“She is helping to keep our force a secret,” Roan answers. “She has been busy silencing those who get too close to the truth.”

“And you’re happy with her killing our people?” 

“I am not happy with any of this,” Roan counters gruffly. “But if it stops all out war, then that is what is best for our people,” he finishes.

And so Clarke nods to herself for a moment before her gaze moves back to Lexa who stands quietly by, her eyes taking in the conversation between both Azgeda.

“It is settled,” Lexa says abruptly. “You will submit after I defeat you, Clarke,” and Clarke’s eyes roll. “And then Roan will bring his forces to Polis, reveal himself to Nia and issue the challenge,” and she meets Roan’s gaze for a moment.

“Good,” Roan agrees with a nod. “Then it is settled, I will wait with my forces until you summon me, it would be best not to reveal ourselves too early,” he finishes before bowing his head once before turning, his feet taking him deeper into the tunnels and away from where Clarke and Lexa stand.

“Do not worry, Clarke,” Lexa says quietly, her gaze moving over the clothes Clarke wears. 

“That’s easy for you to say,” Clarke says. “It’s not your people you’re fighting for.”

“The Coalition is all my people,” Lexa replies simply. “Azgeda may not be Trikru, but your warriors and your people are my warriors and my people,” and Lexa’s eyes soften just a bit as she takes in Clarke’s clothes once more. 

“What?” Clarke asks as she looks down at herself.

“Trikru colours look better on you, Clarke,” Lexa says simply, her lip turning up.

Clarke’s eyes roll, “you just want to get me out of my furs, don’t you,” Clarke jest.

“There will be time for that later,” Lexa says with a smirk as she begins to move back the way they had come.

And Clarke feels her lips part slightly as she watches Lexa step away easily, her feet quiet as she moves over the rubble underfoot and towards where Shana stands in the flickering of a flame.

 

* * *

 

Daybreak comes too soon for Clarke, but as her eyes open she feels the sun that splashes across her face and that warms the vastness of her bed. She rolls over into the warmth and she smiles for a moment as she lets the softness of the furs lull her mind back into a slumber.

Clarke’s eyes snap open to the banging on her door though, and she rises, furs slipping from her body as she steps across the cold stone underfoot. Clarke reaches to the door quickly, and as she opens it she finds Ontari and Entani standing outside.

“Please, come in,” Clarke sighs as Ontari preemptively pushes past her before her words even finish leaving her lips.

“We are here to ensure you do not die,” Entani says happily despite the pain Clarke sees on her face.

“Sit,” Ontari grumbles, her mood less happy.

Clarke finds herself sitting in a chair, Ontari quick to stand behind her as she begins braiding her hair, fingers tugging sharply at the knots she finds. Entani sits on the edge of her bed, eyes taking in its size for a moment.

“We do not get quarters like this,” Entani says as she runs a hand over the thick furs. 

“We are not Wanheda,” Ontari answers from behind Clarke, and so Entani shrugs before reaching for Clarke’s knife on a table.

And so Clarke finds her eyes following Entani’s motions as the healer runs a whetstone across her knife’s edge, the blade glinting in the flickering of the candle light and the rising of the sun as it dapples through the latticework. 

It takes Ontari longer than usual to braid her hair, and Clarke is sure the other woman takes her time with the patterns she braids, and perhaps Clarke knows if things were different she would feel more nervous, more uncertain, but in this moment she knows worry to be useless, the plan she had discussed with Lexa and Roan that night having soothed at least some of her worries.

Clarke feels Ontari’s fingers still in her hair though, and she knows the other woman to be close to finished, and so Ontari runs a hand over the braids she has just woven, and Clarke knows Ontari worries, frets and thinks of situations out of her control.

“Don’t worry about me, Ontari,” Clarke says, her hand reaching back to grip Ontari’s wrist from over her shoulder. And as Ontari merely grumbles quietly in answer Clarke thinks she will have to explain the things she has done, she has kept from her friends. 

Entani stands after a moment though, the knife resting in its sheath on the bed, and Clarke watches as Entani moves to where Clarke keeps her furs. Entani picks them up, eyes glancing briefly at them before she holds them out for Clarke.

“You have not cleaned them,” Entani says as her fingers rub at the dried blood. 

“I didn’t have time,” Clarke says as she stands. 

“It will be a good distraction,” Ontari says as she eyes the furs in Entani’s hands. 

And so Clarke lets both women help her dress, their worry for her not unnoticed. And as she pulls on her pelt, the clasp buckled across her chest, she feels the weight of the skull that sits on the back of her neck, the cool of the bone clinging to her skin for a moment.

But Clarke noticed that Ontari holds Entani’g gaze for a long moment, her eyes narrowed as she tries to convey a message, and as Entani notices she merely rolls her eyes before struggling to her feet, her ribs and her recent surgery still paining her.

“I will give you two some time,” Entani says over her shoulder as she steps out of Clarke’s quarters.

And so Ontari waits until the doors close before she comes to kneel in front of Clarke who remains seated in the chair.

“Do not be afraid, Clarke,” Ontari says quietly. “The Commander,” and Clarke feels her lips lift up as Ontari scowls at Lexa’s mention, “was only a distraction. Kwin Nia has called on you to honour Azgeda and you will defeat the Commander,” and Ontari’s hand reaches out and squeezes Clarke’s fingers firmly. 

And so Clarke smiles in turn, and she knows her words couldn’t sooth Ontari in this moment and so she twists her hand slightly, enough for her fingers to entwine with Ontari’s as she squeezes them. 

“Everything will be ok, Ontari,” Clarke says, and she makes sure her gaze holds Ontari’s for a long moment. “I’m sure of it.” 

And Ontari meets her gaze with her own, and Clarke watches as Ontari worries her lip, looks away, and scrunches her nose in thought only to wince at her still healing nose. 

“Don’t do that,” Clarke laughs quietly. “You need to let your nose heal.” 

And Ontari smiles briefly, a finger brushing against the splint that remains ever present. And Clarke sees Ontari’s eyes ghost over her face for a moment before her gaze moves to Clarke’s pack that rests an arm’s length away. Clarke watches as Ontari reaches forward, hand carding through her belongings before she pulls the small vial of white warpaint free, and as Ontari lifts it for Clarke to see, she feels a smile spread once more on her lips as she nods.

And so Clarke’s eyes close as Ontari opens the small jar, and Clarke feels Ontari’s fingers begin to brush against her face, the cold of the war paint clinging to her skin and settling her slowly strumming heart. 

 

* * *

 

Clarke hears it before she sees it. The sounds of the people gathered carry over the distance, and as her feet continue to take her forward she feels the strumming of her pulse begin to race. Her eyes squint up into the sky to find it clear, the sun almost at its highest point. A wind breathes through Polis, too, the chill of it rustling the furs on her shoulders, but she embraces it, the cold a comfort and a reminder of the times she had spent in Ronto. She feels Ontari’s slowly worsening mood, the woman grinding her teeth as she glares at the few who they pass as they make their way through the main street of Polis. Entani remains steadfast by Clarke’s side, too, the healer ignoring the pain Clarke is sure she feels, and as Clarke glances at her for a moment she sees an easiness in Entani’s motions, her worry perhaps better internalised than Ontari’s. And Clarke’s attention turns to Torvun as he walks behind her, his body a constant comfort by her side in moments of unrest or uncertainty.

Clarke continues to walk the main street, the sounds of chatter and commotion growing louder and louder. She turns a corner to find people gathered before her, hundreds, she thinks, and she eyes the large platform that stands out from the crowd, ambassadors seated on it, their eyes moving across the swelling crowd before them. And as Clarke approaches she finds Azgeda warriors already gathered before her, their own faces painted white, their furs shining in the light. She notices Jenma standing near the front, Bronat and Leeton standing behind her, their heads nodding to her as she passes by the Azgeda warriors who part for her until she has a clear path to the open space that will be the fighting ground.

Guards line the perimeter, their eyes constantly tracking movement, their senses honed to any that would try to interfere, and as Clarke steps past the last of the Azgeda she meets Nia’s gaze, the woman sitting in her own chair as she looks down upon Clarke, Teril ever present by the Kwin’s side.

At the opposite end of the cleared space Clarke finds Anya glaring harshly at Nia’s profile, she spots Gustus standing close by, too, his fist clamped tightly around the knife at his belt. But what steals Clarke’s attention the most is Lexa who stands facing her. 

Lexa’s eyes drip with the black of her warpaint, the markings etched across her cheeks and claw at her face and bleed into her skin. Clarke’s eyes gaze over the braids that adorn Lexa’s hair, that weave and flow and cascade down her back. And Clarke eyes the clothing Lexa wears too, the lighter leathers nimble, flexible, enough to protect the most glancing of blows, soft enough to allow Lexa to dart about freely and unhindered.

But she sees Lexa’s eyes travel over her own body, and Clarke can’t help but to wonder what Lexa must see. She wonder’s if Lexa thinks it impressive that she wears furs soaked in the blood of those she has killed, in the blood she has spilt herself. She wonders if Lexa sees her past the white of the warpaint that colours her face a deathly pale, she wonders if Lexa recognises her past the scars that adorn her cheeks and forehead, marks that show her as one of Azgeda.

But Lexa meets her gaze briefly, the sounds of the roaring crowd dying to her ears, and as they share a moment she sees Lexa’s lips twitch up slightly, the gaze they share not for others to experience.

And it takes Clarke a moment longer to realise she stands before the Azgeda now, her feet having taken her almost to the centre of the fighting ground, and as she turns just once she finds Ontari’s fist clenched tightly around her own knife as Entani and Torvun stand close by.

Titus stands, his voice ringing out as the crowd silences, his gaze moving about slowly as he takes in all those that stand before him.

“In single combat,” and he pauses just once as his gaze meets Lexa’s. “There is but one rule,” and his gaze hardens as he meets Clarke’s eyes. “Someone must die today,” and Clarke watches as Titus raises his hand, as he pauses for a moment as the crowd silences in anticipation for what is to come next. And so Titus drops his hand as his voice rings out, “you may begin.”

Clarke feels the anticipation build, she feels it begin to swell within her, within her mind and her limbs and her body. She feels the flush that spreads, the eagerness and the fright and the anxiousness and the months of planning and deceit and waiting and patience.

Clarke turns to face Lexa, perhaps not even five strides between them. And she watches as Lexa draws a sword slowly, the sound echoing out through the silence. She watches as Lexa holds her gaze, a confidence, an eagerness, an excitement beginning to swell within the green eyes that return her gaze.

Clarke reaches behind her, fingers snaring at her skull as she raises it, as she slips it over her head and as it settles before her face, the large fangs cradling her jaw, the eye sockets honing her eyes to Lexa’s every move.

Clarke smiles, and she knows Lexa senses it by the twitching of a cheek and the slight parting of her lips. 

And so Clarke lunges, her knife snaking out as she comes to crash against Lexa.


	18. Chapter 18

Her mind settles, her thoughts focus, and she feels the tension in her shoulders relax further as the weight of her sword pulls at the muscles in her arm. Her eyes focus on the furs that Clarke wears, the bloodied splashes a fearsome sight, the skull glinting fiercely in the sunlight.  And she sees Clarke lunge. 

Lexa waits for a moment, her stance shifting slightly in anticipation of the strike, of the deflection she will create with the edge of her sword. And then she slips back, her sword slashing out smoothly as she blocks Clarke’s first strike, and she thinks she hears Clarke mutter under her breath, and she is sure Clarke insults her, insults the ease in which she holds herself.

Lexa spins quickly, her sword flicking out in anticipation of Clarke’s next strike only for her blade to sing through the air in a lonesome arc. And as she turns to meet Clarke’s hidden gaze Lexa thinks she sees a lifting of Clarke’s lips behind the mask, she thinks she sees an ease in the blue eyes that hold her gaze.

Lexa hears the crowd roar as she begins to stalk carefully in a circle around Clarke, and she watches as the blonde tests the ground underfoot, how much her feet can slide on the rock and stone and dirt. And Lexa feels the beating of her heart and the paint that clings to her cheeks. 

And she knows that the thrill she feels is not one from fear, from anticipation of a killing strike, if only because she doesn’t wish to harm Clarke. But as Clarke lunges once more, her knife snaking out rapidly, Lexa can’t help but to feel the flush and the thrill and the pumping of her blood as she dances out of Clarke’s reach with a flourish and a wide curving slash of her blade.

And she knows she hears Clarke curse her more loudly now, her eyes beginning to narrow as Lexa continues to move just out of her reach. Lexa feels the smile tug at her lips, but before it fully takes hold Clarke lunges once more, her foot kicking up dirt at Lexa, but Lexa sees it, she moves with it, and so she ducks, her free hand gripping Clarke’s outstretched hand before throwing the other woman over her shoulder, but Lexa feels Clarke loosen herself, ease her body into the throw, and as the blonde rolls over Lexa’s shoulder she hits the ground in her own roll before coming to a low crouch, her knife held out in front of her as she slowly begins to settle into a defensive position.

Lexa comes to a stand, her eyebrow raising subtly, the roar of the crowd more loud now, her display of throwing Clarke over her shoulder sending a ripple of discontent through the Azgeda ranks. Lexa spares only one quick glance at Nia to see the woman smirking, her eyes briefly moving into the crowd before snapping back to Lexa.

Clarke settles though, and as Lexa pulls her attention back to the blonde, she realises that Clarke waits for her to make a move now, that her first few attacks were a trial, were a testing of the waters.

And so Lexa strikes out quickly, but she twists her blade slightly, so slightly that she knows none would perceive it, but just slightly enough that if it were to strike, then it would only cause minimal harm. 

But Clarke sees the strike, she slips forward, flips her grip on her knife so that the blade rests against her forearm, and Clarke strikes out, the blades ringing out shrilly as they connect. And Lexa pushes forward, she kicks out with her foot, the blow striking Clarke on the inside of her ankle in an attempt to trip her, but Clarke must see it coming because she drops her weight, her foot only skidding across the ground slightly as she slides with the force of the blow before her elbow snakes out and strikes Lexa across the face with a low thump. 

Lexa’s head whips around, and as she pulls back, as she readies her sword, and as she eyes Clarke, she knows the blonde smirks behind the skull. 

And so Lexa lets her own smirk spread more openly now. 

And she attacks. Lexa lunges forward, her sword whipping out, and she cant quite help but to laugh lowly as she sees Clarke’s eyes widen in shock at the swiftness of her strike, and as Clarke back peddles, Lexa follows her, her blows coming rapidly, quickly, softly, the strikes more speed and sound than force.

But Clarke blocks each one with a quick dash in and out of her range, with a ducking and a shifting of her body, a twisting of her blade and a spinning of her heels.

And Lexa sees it almost too late, Clarke manages to slip through a strike, Lexa’s pattern perhaps too predictable, and then Lexa feels Clarke’s face crash against her cheek, the blow more push than strike, but Lexa moves with it, she lets her body stumble backwards only slightly, and Clarke grabs her by the collar before returning the throw as she sends Lexa onto the ground to the cheers and roars of the Azgeda warriors. 

Lexa ends the throw with a roll over her shoulder though, her hand throwing up dirt as she comes to a low crouch, her sword raised horizontally before her as she eyes Clarke who begins to circle her now, a smirk on her lips, her eyes holding a mirth that Lexa thinks must be reflected in her own.

And so Lexa sees Clarke lunge. Clarke’s knife whips out once, twice, the attacks more speed, more blur, than strike, Clarke flips the blade in the air just as Lexa’s sword catches it, and Lexa can’t help but to feel a thrill run through her as Clarke spins once as she breaks from the assault fast enough to snare her knife from the air before flipping it once more as she reaches around Lexa’s sword and grasps it in front of her face before slashing out, the edge only just missing Lexa’s shoulder. 

Lexa’s hand snakes out quickly, her blow catching Clarke in the bicep, the strike enough to pause Clarke in her advance, and so Lexa pushes her back with an open handed strike across her chest, and then she lunges, her eyes track Clarke’s motions as the blonde begins to focus on her swings, on the pattern Lexa lets live in her movements, and as Lexa advances further and further Clarke begins to circle, her eyes shifting from opening to guarded stance to advancing strike. 

Lexa backs Clarke up further until the blonde stands before the Azgeda warriors gathered, and Lexa knows her eyes catch the quiet observation of Torvun, Clarke’s ever present guard, as he takes in the careful dance she is sure he knows they play. Her gaze shifts to Ontari, the Azgeda warrior glaring a ferocious, anger fuelled worry at her, fist clenched on her own knife as her eyes follow Lexa’s sword as it sings through the air. And Lexa eyes Entani for a brief second, the Azgeda healer’s torso strapped in a thick brace of leathers and straps, but she recognises the quiet study in the healer’s eyes, the way her head cocks to the side and the way her eyes track Lexa’s own predictable pattern. Lexa turns back once to Clarke to see the blonde’s eyes roll as Lexa continues to advance and Lexa feels the smile that tugs at her lips, and she thinks after this fight Clarke will berate her for showing off, for showing too much bravado. 

Lexa’s gaze moves quickly to the other Azgeda though, and she knows she sees worry in some eyes, hate in others, but she thinks she sees acceptance in all gazes, the fight she and Clarke participate in enough to convince all that watch. Her gaze moves to an Azgeda warrior though, the dark curls of her hair a familiar swaying in the light breeze. Lexa’s eyes take in the barely there covering of white warpaint that only just masks her features, the other Azgeda all deathly pale in comparison. Lexa’s eyes widen as she registers the familiarity, the way hazel eyes stare into her own eyes, the way lips part slightly, and the way the dark of her skin shines in the sunlight. 

Confusion comes next, and as Lexa falters for a moment she knows Clarke mistakes it for an invitation. But Lexa doesn’t quite register Clarke as she advances, her gaze merely staring wide eyed at the woman who stands in the crowd, she tracks the scar that mars her cheek, that dips into her lip. And Lexa feels it. She feels Clarke’s blade slash into her thigh, she feels Clarke’s hand as it tries to jerk backwards too late, and she feels the impact as Clarke curses out quietly as the blow travels through Lexa and sends her leg backwards. 

And then Clarke crashes into her.

 

* * *

 

Clarke’s eyes roll as she continues to memorise the pattern Lexa swings her sword with as she advances, the blade slashing out at her in quick intervals, the flourishes a show of skill for those that watch and a pattern for Clarke to recognise. Clarke backs up further, her eyes moving from Lexa’s feet to the blade that dances before her eyes before once settling on Lexa’s face. 

And she sees Lexa’s eyes shift slightly to those behind her, and Clarke knows Lexa must be taking in the Azgeda at her back, must be assessing whether the fight seems real, seems deadly. 

But she sees Lexa falter, she sees the small change in pace, in pattern, and Clarke knows it for what it is. And so she lunges. Clarke feels the smile spread once more as she begins to slip past Lexa’s sword, and she prepares for Lexa to move back, to avoid her lowered strike, to block it and to retaliate. 

But Lexa doesn’t.

Clarke senses the hesitation, the confusion and the falter in Lexa’s concentration. Clarke sees her own knife snake forward in slow motion, the point sharp and glinting in the sun light as it strikes low at Lexa’s leg.

And Clarke thinks it too late to pause her attack, too late to redirect the strike, and her eyes widen as she sees the edge sink into the flesh of Lexa’s thigh, as blood begins to pool and spurt around the edges. 

And then Clarke crashes against Lexa, her momentum too strong for her to halt. Clarke curses out as Lexa falls to the ground with a grunt of pain. Clarke falls on top of her before rolling with the momentum as she comes to her knees, her eyes wide as she glances from the red of her knife and then down to Lexa who grimaces, a hand covering her thigh as she begins to rise.

“What do I do, Lexa,” Clarke hisses as she begins moving to stand above Lexa whose gaze looks around wildly, her eyes searching the crowd of Azgeda warriors that stand behind Clarke. “Lexa,” Clarke hisses once more.

Clarke hears the crowd deaden, she feels the crowd still, their eyes focused on the bloody knife she holds in her hands. And she knows what it must look like to those that watch. She knows it must look like she recognised a pattern, a weakness in the Commander’s attack, that she took a chance, took a daring rush that succeeded in wounding the Commander. And Clarke knows that in this moment she must look a conquerer standing before the vanquished, the pause she takes merely to allow fear to build in her wounded foe.

“Kill her,” Nia’s voice rings out over the silence, and Clarke looks up to see Nia standing, her eyes furious as she looks down at Lexa whose gaze slowly begins to harden, to return to the present. “Kill the Commander and honour your clan,” Nia hisses, her voice carrying out, and Clarke hears the murmurs of the Azgeda behind her, she knows she feels the anticipation they must be experiencing, she knows they must be eager for the death of the Commander in this moment. “Kill her,” Nia’s voice comes more loudly now.

And Clarke looks down at Lexa once more, and she knows Lexa’s mind still not so focused, not so certain of what happens. Clarke knows the pause is too long though, she knows she must act, must do something to avoid Lexa’s death.

Nia steps forward, her feet taking her closer and closer to the edge of the platform until she stops, her body casting a shadow that stretches out before her.

“Kill her,” Nia says, her eyes furious as she lets her lips turn into a snarl, her teeth barred and the scars on her face contorting, twisting savagely. “Or you dishonour your Kwin. You dishonour your clan. You dishonour Azgeda.”

Clarke doesn’t miss Ontari’s voice that whispers loudly for her to kill the Commander, she doesn’t miss the panic that laces Ontari’s voice as Ontari’s gaze must move from Nia’s furious stare and back to Clarke. 

And Clarke doesn’t miss the shifting of Anya in the corner of her vision, the woman looking from her to Lexa to Nia, she doesn’t miss Gustus begin to move subtly, his eyes focused on Teril who begins to approach the edge of the platform. She doesn’t miss Titus who stares shocked and confused at her before his gaze moves to Lexa and then into the crowd as he follows the wounded woman’s gaze.

“Kill her,” Nia says, her eyes holding Clarke’s gaze for a long, measured beat, her voice low, the snarl slowly fading from her lips. But as Nia’s eyes hold hers, Clarke thinks Nia talks not of Lexa. And Clarke knows that her time is up, that her pause was too long, that her reluctance to take Lexa’s life too obvious. 

And so Teril drops from the platform, and Clarke watches as more Azgeda royal guards move forward too, their voices shouting at the Polis guards to step back, but Anya begins to draw her sword as she pushes forward, and Clarke sees Gustus draw his knife as he moves. Trikru warriors begin moving too, their eyes darting from Nia who stands on the platform, and then to the Azgeda royal guards, some stalking towards Clarke, others moving to intercept the Polis and Trikru guards.

And Clarke hears commotion behind her, and she turns to see the Azgeda who stand behind her drawing their swords and their knives, uncertainty in their eyes as they begin to move forward as one. 

Teril reaches her in the confusion, Azgeda warriors already swarming her position as they meet the Trikru. And as Clarke’s gaze meets Teril’s, she finds his eyes hidden behind a blankness she thinks unfamiliar to the usual mirth ever present in his gaze. Teril’s hand grips her harshly by the shoulder as he kicks her legs out from under her, his hand falling to the knife at his ribs. And then she feels his arm wrap around her throat from behind as he begins dragging back and through the Azgeda warriors who swarm around her as they meet the advancing Trikru, and Clarke thinks she sees Ontari’s stunned face, the horror and the panic clear for any to see as she stands in the middle of the Azgeda, her gaze following Clarke as she fades into the Azgeda masses.

And so the last thing Clarke sees before Teril slips a hood over eyes and slams the hilt of his knife against the side of her head to knock her unconscious is Nia’s servant who slips away from the slowly unravelling crowd, two Azgeda guards escorting her, one’s eyes glancing back the way they came, another with his hand gripping the woman’s upper arm tightly.

 

* * *

 

Anya stares wide eyed for only a fraction of a moment and then she moves. She barks out for the Trikru with her to move forward, and she hears them drawing weapons as the Azgeda begin to meet their movements with their own. Her gaze snaps to where Clarke had been standing, but she finds her gone and Anya thinks her lips turn into a snarl as her eyes dart to Lexa who begins to rise, her eyes shifting slightly as she gazes into the sea of Azgeda before her as she comes to a stand. 

Nia stays on the platform though, Azgeda guards standing close by as their hands rest on their swords or knives. And Anya begins to move forward, her steps even as she begins counting the warriors that face her, and her eyes focus on the nearest Azgeda to her, the man large, his face weathered, older than those around him, and she knows him to be a survivor, for surely one who has survived to his age must be skilled and relentless. 

Anya’s gaze moves to the Ambassadors briefly to find some sitting stunned, not quite sure how to react to Azgeda reacting so violently, so aggressively within Polis walls. And Anya’s gaze moves back to the Polis guards, their colours blurring together as they begin massing between the Trikru and Azgeda warriors.

“Enough!” and Anya’s gaze snaps back to Lexa who stands in the midst of the commotion now, her eyes searching just once for Clarke before settling on the nearest of the warriors. “You will lower your weapons,” Lexa snarls as she meets the Azgeda warriors who pause in their advance. And Anya watches as Lexa raises her chin defiantly as she grips her sword, her eyes daring any Azgeda to take a step further. “And Trikru,” Lexa calls out as she turns, as she faces the Trikru warriors who gather behind Anya. “You will stand down.”

Lexa’s fury seems to lessen the initial aggression that seeps from the Trikru and Azgeda warriors, and as Lexa casts her gaze around her once more, Anya sees warriors from both clans begin to lower weapons, the Polis guards pushing them back harshly, their hands still firmly clasped around their own weapons.

But Anya sees Titus stand and walk to the edge of the platform, his eyes sweeping over the crowd, and it is only now that Anya realises the the Polis people gathered remain shocked, remain silent, uncertainty of what has just transpired clearly written across faces young and old.

“The Azgeda champion has submitted,” Titus calls out, and Anya feels the anger burn within the Azgeda who still stand together, anger and uncertainty and disbelief colouring their outbursts as Titus lets his voice rise in volume.

Anya sees Lexa’s eyes flash to the Azgeda though, and she sees the younger woman search the faces she sees, and Anya knows Lexa must search for Clarke now, must be trying to find her in the sea of white faces.

“What of Wanheda?” one of the Azgeda shouts, his expression confused as he meets Nia’s gaze as she continues to stand at the edge of the platform.

“Wanheda has dishonoured Azgeda,” she sneers, her voice lifting loudly. “She will be returned to Azgeda where she will be punished accordingly.”

Anya doesn’t miss the clenching in Lexa’s jaw, and as she glances briefly at the Azgeda, she sees Ontari punch the Azgeda warrior who had raised the question before Torvun grabs her and forces her further into the Azgeda masses.

And so Titus clears his throat loudly, his hand raised once more as he lets his voice raise over the noises of chatter that begin to spread through the gathered crowd.

“So be it,” and Anya watches as Titus lowers his hand steadily. “The challenge has ended.”

Anya feels Gustus begin to move from where she stands though, and as her eyes dart out once more to the Azgeda she reaches out and pulls him closer to her.

“Where is Clarke?” Anya hisses.

And she sees Gustus scan the Azgeda around them for a moment.

“I do not know,” he answers, his gaze falling to Lexa who stares at the sea of Azgeda who slowly begin to move as one towards the Azgeda sector.

 

* * *

 

Her gaze lands on Clarke’s unconscious body for a long moment. 

“They are ready,” the man says quietly as he steps besides her.

“You remember where to meet?” she asks.

“Yes, Kwin Nia,” he replies.

“Good,” Nia says, her eyes landing on the first of the women who steps out from the shadows. “They will not know which one is truly Wanheda,” and Nia smiles as five women duck out of the small room, their hair blonde and braided a similar pattern, their clothes and furs the same, each with a knife strapped to their thigh.

 

* * *

 

Lexa’s eyes follow the thread that Nyko pulls through her wound, the flickering of a candle and the scents of healing paste wafting through her room.

“She cut you,” Anya says. “You allowed her to defeat you. I did not realise that was the plan.”

“It was not,” Lexa answers tersely, her thoughts turning to Clarke for a moment.

“We will find her,” Anya says and Lexa thinks Anya must read her thoughts as the older woman continues, “Shana already searches Polis. She must still be within Polis walls.” 

But Lexa grunts out in frustration, her fist clenching tightly as she continues to stare at the thread and the slowly closing slash to her thigh.

“How?” Anya says, her arms crossing over her chest.

And as Lexa thinks of what had distracted her, she thinks it a facade, a ploy, a game Nia plays, ever constant as she taunts and leers so strongly in her actions.

“It does not matter,” Lexa says, her teeth grinding as long gone memories begin to surface of a deep richness to skin, bronzed from the sun, and the dark curls and the hazel of kind eyes, cunning and expressive in motion.

Lexa’s head looks up at the sounds of feet slapping against stone though, and Nyko pauses in his suturing, his eyes glancing to the door to her quarters, and Anya moves to intercept whoever arrives, whoever rushes through Polis tower.

“Heda,” and Lexa recognises Shana’s breathless voice as she knocks on the door rapidly. And Lexa thinks her heart stills, she thinks her mind freezes, her thoughts already knowing what Shana will say. 

And so Shana opens the door, strand of her hair clinging to her forehead as she takes in a lungful of air.

“Azgeda forces leave Polis,” and Shana coughs once as her lungs continue to fight for air. “They have separated. We can not follow all of them.”

And Lexa feels her heart freeze, she feels her mind dent and fracture to the thoughts that race through her mind.

_Clarke._

 

* * *

 

Clarke wakes to a throbbing ache in her head and a splitting pain through her skull. It takes her a moment longer to realise that she is blindfolded and that she rides atop a horse and that her body is pressed back into another person. And as memories come flooding through her mind Clarke remembers the challenge, she remembers slicing at Lexa’s thigh, she remembers the wound that had caused Lexa to stumble and fall to the ground. And Clarke remembers Nia’s furious words, her demands for Clarke to kill Lexa, that she dishonoured Azgeda.

The horse she rides on comes to a stop then, and as she feels the person pull on the reins she feels her body lurch forward awkwardly, and as she tries to steady herself she registers that her hands are tied in front of her.

“You are awake,” the voice says, and as the person dismounts she feels strong hands pull her off roughly. The blindfold is removed then, and she comes face to face with Teril who pushes her to her knees before him.

“Where am I?” Clarke asks as her eyes blink in the dark, the moon the only source of light she sees.

“You are returning to Azgeda,” Teril says simply. 

“Why?” and Clarke glares up at the man.

“You disobeyed Nia’s orders,” he answers. “You did not strike down Heda when you were granted the opportunity to do so,” and he shrugs as he turns her around and pushes her into the ground before bending to tie her feet together.

“You are a fool,” he snorts. “To try to plot against Nia, to try to remove her from power,” and Clarke feels the thrumming of her pulse. 

“So you’re just going to kill me?” Clarke winces as she feels the rope cut into her ankles.

“No,” Teril says simply. “Your stunt gave Nia little choice but to have you smuggled out of the city before Heda realised what was happening,” and Teril lifts her once more before marching her awkwardly to a tree. “Other Azgeda will meet us in the morning.”

“So that’s it?” Clarke winces as she feels the bark bite into her shoulders as Teril slides her down the tree. “You’re just going to let me be imprisoned? Killed?”

“I do my duty,” Teril answers simply.

 

* * *

 

Clarke wakes to rough hands shaking her shoulders and noise that spreads out quietly around her. Her eyes open to find three tents now springing up around her, camp fires burning and warriors standing close. But what gives her pause are the unmarked faces of the warriors she sees, their eyes harsh in the light of a slowly rising sun.

“You are awake,” Teril says simply as he kneels down before her. “Eat,” he says simply as he pushes a small slice of bread to her lips.

And so Clarke takes it in with a grimace, her mind not quite certain of what situation she will walk in to, but if only by the scarless faces, she thinks herself in trouble, she thinks herself backed into a corner, and she hopes that wherever Lexa is, or even wherever Roan is, that they may be able to  help.

As the last of the bread passes her lips Teril pulls out his knife, the blade cutting through the ropes that bind her to the tree. 

“Your presence is required,” he says simply as he lifts her, hand gripping her by the back of the neck as he urges her towards one of the three tents.

And so, as Clarke enters, she finds the tent sparsely decorated, merely a bed, a small table and two chairs in the centre. But what steals her attention is Nia who sits in one chair, her eyes hard in the dim light as she takes in Clarke’s blinking gaze.

“Sit,” Nia says simply. 

Teril pushes Clarke into a chair then, and she feels him hardly step back, his presence much closer to her than she is used to.

“You think you would fool me, Clarke?” Nia begins quickly. “You think you could plot to overthrow me? To remove me from power? To throw Azgeda into chaos?” 

Clarke swallows roughly, her eyes blinking back the sleep for a moment as she begins to think and let her mind turn over what she knows.

“No,” Clarke says simply.

But Nia smiles once before she leans forward, the scars across her face glinting in the dim light once more. 

“You lie,” Nia says. “I know of you and Lexa, I know you refused to take the Mountain for Azgeda. I know you work with Roan.”

But Clarke remains quiet, and despite the truth to many of Nia’s words, she finds herself remaining mute, a glare slowly beginning to form across her face.

“You do not wish to confess your treason,” and Nia’s head tilts. “Understandable,” she says simply. “We return to Azgeda,” and Nia’s finger taps against the table twice in thought. “Lexa will try to find you, she may even chase after the Azgeda that return,” and Clarke shifts slightly in her chair, the wood biting into her leg for a moment. “She will not find you,” and Nia looks into her eyes for a long moment, and as Clarke holds her gaze she sees Nia smile once more. “Perhaps you will be the one to talk.”


	19. Chapter 19

Her eyes take him in for a long moment, and as she sees the glint in them, she thinks he considers a question, considers a request, something important, something dangerous. But Roan stands, paces around the campfire and breathes in deeply, his arms swinging by his side lazily and she thinks he lets his thoughts settle.

“If you fail you will die,” he says simply as he turns back to her. 

“That has always been true,” she counters.

“If Lexa finds out you give her enemies information you will die. If you are caught by Nia you will die,” he says.

“Is that not the same as failing?” she counters as she comes to stand.

“If our plans fail, if Clarke fails, you will die,” he stresses.

“I know,” she answers evenly. “But it is worth the risk,” and she moves closer to him in the dark. “Azgeda waging war against all other clans will be the end of our people.” 

She sees him grind his teeth for a moment, and she knows memories of the Coalition’s forming linger through his mind. “You can trust him?” he asks.

“He will see reason,” she answers.

And so she watches as Roan nods his head, a hand scratching at his beard for a short while before he sighs. 

“Then you will feed him information for Nia. If information is to leak then we must control what my mother knows,” and she watches as he glares at the burning campfire for a moment. “It is dangerous,” he says simply.

And she smiles at his words, but she knows the danger to be real, the threat to be true.

“It is a gamble,” she shrugs. “But one we must make. We can not succeed in overthrowing Nia without their support.” 

“I do not like it,” Roan says as he kicks at a branch.

“We all must make sacrifices for our people,” she says. “You taught me that,” and she sees his eyes roll. 

“Do not parrot my words to me,” but she knows she hears no bite in them.

“Then do not lead me into discussions where I am able to do so,” she counters, her eyebrow raising in jest. “Come,” she says as she eases herself back onto the furs, her hand outstretched for Roan to take.

And so Roan smiles slightly, his eyes glancing over her exposed chest as he begins to stalk towards her in the flickering light.

“Perhaps after this is over I will make Tehorse the capital,” he says as he lowers himself over her, his hand brushing against her cheek kindly.

“Do not think you will gain favour with me by making my village the new capital,” Echo laughs quietly as she wraps her legs around Roan’s waist.

 

* * *

 

Clarke’s legs ache and her throat scratches. Her mind drifts from sleep to wakefulness with each ungainly lurch of the horse she rides atop. She thinks she has spent a day constantly moving, her blindfolded body being passed from rider to rider as they meet and break off into different groups, into different directions to throw off a pursuit. But from the cold and the slowly rustling freeze that breathes around her she knows she must be close to Azgeda borders.

The horse comes to a stop though, and Clarke winces as she feels herself rock forward only for whoever rides behind her to snare her hair quickly to stop her from falling.

“Sorry, Wanheda,” and Clarke starts at the familiar voice.

“Jenma?” she asks.

“Yes,” and she knows Jenma talks quietly, and she thinks she hears the sounds of life, of a small camp. “Do not talk, you will only make your punishment worse,” Jenma finishes as she dismounts before gripping Clarke firmly as she helps her off the horse awkwardly. “We rest for the night then we cross into Azgeda lands tomorrow,” Jenma finishes as she begins pushing Clarke forward.

Clarke steps awkwardly over the iced ground underfoot, her feet slipping occasionally as she steps blindly forward. She feels the heat of burning campfires though, and she knows from the lack of glinting light through the blindfold that it must be close to sunset and that she sky must be tinged with streaks of pink by now. 

Clarke hears the sound of a tent flap being drawn back before she is ushered inside, and she feels the temperature increase slightly from a flame that burns close by. Jenma pulls Clarke up short though before pushing down on her shoulders for her to sit. Clarke feels a pole to her back, and she knows she must in the centre of the tent. She feels herself tied to the pole then, the rope tight and cutting as it digs into her body.

“I am sorry,” Jenma says as she pulls the blindfold free, and Clarke gazes at her for a moment and she spies the auburn red braids that cling messily to Jenma’s forehead, a sign that they have travelled far, have travelled swiftly. “Food will be delivered when the hunters return,” she finishes as she stands, a wan smile creasing her face as she slips out of the tent.

And so Clarke feels the few days of constant travel begin to creep back to the forefront of her mind. She knows she must be close to Azgeda borders now, and she thinks Nia must have snuck her out of Polis quickly, must have used Lexa’s wound as a distraction, the time she spent being seen to enough for Nia and her forces to leave in the aftermath of the challenge. 

But Clarke finds herself thinking of Ontari, too, she remembers the panic in her eyes, in her voice, she remembers Entani who stared, shocked and mute as Clarke was pulled through the Azgeda crowds. And she remembers Torvun looking from Teril to Nia and back to her, uncertainty and pause written across his face as he battles with whatever loyalties and oaths she thinks he must have taken.

Clarke’s thoughts drift to Lexa though, and she thinks the wound on her thigh not serious, not life threatening, but she thinks it was deep, something that must have been seen to immediately. And as Clarke begins to sift over the challenge, over the fight, she realises that Nia must have done something, must have caused a distraction. For surely Lexa’s confusion was caused by something. And Clarke remembers it, she remembers Lexa’s gaze as it tracked behind her, as it looked to the Azgeda carefully, her eyes careful in their appraisal of the reactions of the crowd, of how much they believed. But Clarke remembers the narrowing of Lexa’s eyes, she remembers the double take, the widening, the fright and fury and shock and pain as her eyes had seen something.

But for now, as Clarke takes in the sparse tent she finds herself in, she lets her mind relax, she lets her thoughts begin to settle and she feels sleep take hold. For what else is she to do?

 

* * *

 

Clarke wakes to sounds of commotion outside, to the sounds of arrival and the sounds of voices as they drift over the wind and through the fabric of the tent. She sees shadows move about and she knows it must be late now, the campfires that burn casting their light far.

Her head turns to the tent flap as it opens though, and Clarke squints as a figure steps through. But her eyes widen when the figure continues to move through the tent and kneel before her, a small tray of food held in trembling hands.

“Clarke,” Ontari whispers, her eyes moving over Clarke’s body briefly.

“Ontari,” Clarke smiles quietly, and she eyes the messy braids that cling to Ontari’s forehead, the furs that seem unkempt, haphazard. 

“You are well?” Ontari asks as she places the tray of food down in front of Clarke.

“Yeah,” and Clarke tries to shrug through the ropes that bind her to the pole. “How’d you get here?”

“Kwin Nia ordered all Azgeda in Polis to return to Azgeda,” Ontari answers as she begins cutting the food into bite sized slices. “Even the ones who guard Skaikru are returning,” Ontari finishes as she brings a spoon up to Clarke’s lips.

“How’s Entani? Torvun?” Clarke asks after she swallows.

“Entani is outside,” Ontari says. “Torvun is with Kwin Nia now,” and Ontari shrugs once. “He is guarding her again.”

“Oh,” and Clarke feels a slight pang in her chest at the removal of Torvun, his presence a loss she thinks will take adjusting to. 

Ontari brings a small waterskin to her lips then, the liquid cools her throat and quenches her thirst. She holds it to Clarke’s lips for long enough that Clarke feels the dryness in her mouth fade, and as Ontari pulls it away carefully Clarke smiles at her in thanks.

But Ontari stares at her for a long moment, and as Ontari’s gaze moves over her face, Clarke knows Ontari must consider what has happened, why Nia was so quick to imprison and to isolate and remove Clarke from Polis.

“What did you do, Clarke,” Ontari asks quietly, her eyes wide in the flickering of a flame. “What did you do?”

Clarke meets Ontari’s gaze for a moment, and she thinks of lying, she thinks of not answering, of avoiding the question, of saying a half truth. But above all, she thinks of keeping her friends safe.

“It doesn’t matter,” Clarke says with a gentle smile. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Clarke,” Ontari whispers, her hands clenching tightly in front of her. “What ever you did you must beg forgiveness,” Ontari whispers. “When Kwin Nia questions you, admit everything. Ask forgiveness. Denounce whatever you have done,” and Ontari shuffles closer on her knees. 

“It’s too late for that,” Clarke says sadly, and she knows she feels her lip tremble when Ontari reaches out and grips her forearm tightly, Clarke’s hands still hidden behind her back. 

“Please, Clarke,” Ontari says, and Clarke knows she sees a wetness begin to well in the corner of Ontari’s eyes. “Whatever has happened, you mu—”

“Ontari.” 

And Clarke watches as Ontari’s eyes widen before she rises to her feet quickly as she turns to face the newcomer.

Nia stands at the entrance to the tent, Teril by her side, and Clarke thinks she spies Torvun’s bald head and braided beard amongst the other royal guards by the entrance just before the tent flap closes.

“Kwin Nia,” Ontari says as her head bows and as she takes a step from Clarke.

But Nia watches for a long moment, her gaze hardening as she takes in the waterskin that lays on the floor by Clarke’s side, and the plate with bite sized pieces.

“What were the orders,” Nia says evenly.

“No one talk to the prisoner,” Ontari says as her eyes remain on the ground, head bowed. “No one show her kindness.”

“And yet I find you here,” Nia says as she begins to move forward slowly, Teril ever present by her side.

“Yes, Kwin Nia,” Ontari says as her head raises and as she meets Nia’s gaze, and Clarke sees an acceptance spread over Ontari’s face as Teril already begins to move forward.

And Clarke feels an ager burn in her as Teril reaches out quickly and snares Ontari around the throat before pulling her to him and kneeing her in the ribs. Clarke watches as Ontari gasps out in pain as Teril forces her to the ground before gripping her by the hair as he begins pulling her towards the entrance. 

“Do not disobey orders again, Ontari,” Nia says simply, her gaze looking at Clarke.

Clarke stays silent though, and she feels her jaw clench as Teril finishes pulling Ontari out of the tent before she hears the distinct sounds of Teril striking Ontari outside for a moment longer before it ends as abruptly as it started.

Nia reaches for a chair then, her eyes taking in Clarke’s bound body as she drags the chair forward before sitting down in it facing Clarke.

“Ontari has disappointed me,” Nia says after a long pause, her gaze hidden by a shadow as she reclines in the chair. “I had hoped she would one day lead an army,” and Nia’s head tilts. “Perhaps even become a royal guard,” Nia finishes. “But now?” and Nia smiles sadly. “I do not think she will be given any such honour. You have made that certain.” 

And Nia’s fingers begin to tap quietly at the armrest as she lets the silence linger for a long while once more. Clarke watches silently as Nia’s thoughts dance openly across her face, and Clarke knows Nia thinks of outcomes, of actions and possibilities and scenarios and plans.

“I think I will send Ontari to the west,” she says. “There is little to do there but waste away,” and Nia sneers once. “It is a shame that she will waste the most fruitful of her years patrolling lands no one would wish to patrol,” and Nia leans forward now. “And it is because of you, Clarke.”

Clarke feels the glare begin to spread more openly now, and she sees Nia’s lip curl at her defiance, her display of emotion and anger.

“You disappoint me, too, Clarke,” Nia says. “Azgeda found you when your people cast you out. Azgeda gave you safety. Azgeda gave you purpose. Azgeda took you in as one of our own,” and Nia’s hands sweep out around her. “And yet you conspire against your clan. You plot to throw your clan into chaos, to weaken your clan, to ally with the weak. To make Azgeda weak.”

“Everything I did was for Azgeda,” Clarke answers tightly.

But Nia leans closer, her eyes harden and her lips pulls up into a sneer. “I am Azgeda.”

And as Clarke gazes upon Nia, she thinks the woman believes it, she thinks the Kwin wants what’s best for Azgeda, what’s best for her people. But, above all, Clarke thinks that Nia wishes for Azgeda to rule all the other clans.

“I only want what’s best for our people,” Clarke begins, her gaze holding Nia’s. “I want the peace to last, I want everyone to be safe. I want all clans to flourish.”

But she sees Nia snort at her words, and Clarke knows she must sound idealistic, must sound naive, misguided even. And yet…

“You don’t want that,” Clarke continues. “You want Azgeda to destroy all the clans, you want Azgeda to be the best, to rule over everything,” and Clarke looks away briefly. “You’re really willing to wage war against every other clan just to prove that Azgeda is the strongest?” 

“Only the strong can survive,” Nia snarls. “We do not share. We do not help the weak,” and Nia spits her words. “The weak will die.”

“So you’ll rule in fear? You’ll let Azgeda die just to prove a point,” Clarke says, and she thinks her eyes turn beseeching now, and she feels her eyes widen slightly, and maybe she lets an innocence linger in her gaze.

“The Mountain,” Nia says. “For generations the Mountain terrorised our people. For generations they killed our warriors. Took our families. Destroyed our clans with their tech,” Nia hisses. “But the Mountain fell because they became complacent, they became weak, they allowed themselves to think they would always remain the strongest,” and Nia leans even closer, her breath now ghosting against Clarke’s lips. “And the Commander? And the Commanders before Lexa? They each died when they became weak, when they allowed themselves to become weak,” and Clarke feels Nia’s eyes move across her face before lowering for a moment. “You are young, Clarke,” and Nia smiles kindly at her as she reaches out and brushes a finger against Clarke’s jaw. “You were granted the luxury of not knowing what it is like to know you will one day lead your people into war. To one day sacrifice everything for your people,” and Clarke grimaces slightly as Nia’s finger brushes against her lower lip for a long moment. “The weak will always be destroyed,” and Nia slides off the chair easily before coming to kneel in front of Clarke. “I will not let Azgeda become weak,” and Nia leans forward, a smile slowly spreading over her lips as her face nears Clarke’s. “I will not let Azgeda become a relic of the past. I will not let Azgeda become a fable told to children before they sleep like the Mountain has become.”

And Clarke’s eyes widen as she feels Nia’s hand close around her throat gently, her fingers squeezing just enough for her to feel the pressure and the restriction of breath.

“It is a shame you have wasted your life for a misguided deed, Clarke,” Nia says as she stands and begins walking to the tent’s entrance.

 

* * *

 

Her feet move quickly, her steps move loudly, and she feels the anger and frustration and fear that fills her mind and breaks through her chest. She lashes out then, her fist swiping at a low hanging branch that intrudes in her path, and she curses out and grunts in pain as it merely sweeps back and strikes her in the face.

“You deserve that,” Entani says from behind her, the healer still moving more slowly, her ribs and brace she wears causing her steps to falter every other step.

But Ontari ignores Entani’s words, and as she slows her steps and clenches her fists tightly she lets out a long breath, her mind still turning with the thoughts that flash through her head, and her cheek still smarting from Teril’s strike and she is sure her ribs are bruised from the strike he had given her.

“I told you it was a risk,” Entani says more quietly now, her eyes more careful as she gazes at Ontari.

“What did she do?” Ontari asks as she turns to face Entani. “What did she do?” 

“I do not know,” Entani says. “Maybe it is because she beds the Commander,” and Entani looks away in thought. 

“But no one else would know of such a thing,” Ontari whispers, her eyes scanning around the rocky forest for a moment. “You know, and I know.”

“Perhaps Torvun?” Entani asks as she lowers herself to the ground awkwardly. 

“He would not betray us. He would not betray Clarke,” Ontari says. 

“But he is back guarding Kwin Nia,” Entani counters.

“He is not given a choice,” and Ontari curses quietly as she lowers herself to the ground besides Entani.

“That is true,” and Entani looks into the distance for a while. “What will happen?” 

“I do not know,” and Ontari worries her lip and she feels the beating of her heart begin to speed once more. “I told Clarke to admit everything, anything. Whatever it is that she has done,” and Ontari glances once to Entani who coughs painfully besides her. 

“That will be enough?” Entani asks, and Ontari sees her guard her thoughts, her own worries and fears. 

“It must be, Entani,” she answers. “It must be.”

“Perhaps Kwin Nia will be lenient if Clarke begs forgiveness,” Entani adds. “If she is lucky maybe she will be sent west,” and Entani meets her eyes, a small hope beginning to build. “It is not nice, but she will be able to serve, still,” and Entani nods to herself. 

“We will volunteer to go,” Ontari adds, her head nodding as she thinks over what may come to pass. 

“We can say that it is to make sure Clarke does not do more wrongs, that we watch her,” Entani smiles, but it falters slightly, “but what of Torvun?” she adds sadly. 

“I do not think he will be allowed to come with us,” Ontari says.

“No,” and Entani looks away, a finger brushing against her eyes briefly. 

“Everything will be ok, Entani,” Ontari says as she reaches for her hand and squeezes it. “Everything will be o—”

And Ontari feels the prickle on the back of her neck. She feels the sting and the burn and the slowly building dizziness that takes hold.

“Ontari?” and she sees Entani’s eyes turn quizzical, turn confused as she takes in Ontari’s confused stupor. 

Ontari’s hand reaches up to her neck though, she grasps the sting and pulls it away, and as she lifts it up between them she sees Entani’s eyes widen. But Ontari feels her fingers begin to weaken, she feels her eyes begin to blur, and she feels her mind begin to sleep.

“Run, Enta—”

But Ontari never finishes her words.


	20. Chapter 20

Clarke wakes to the noise of a camp waking, to horses being fed, tents being packed and feet moving about quickly. She groans as the ropes continue to bite into her arms, and she feels the aching pain that runs down her back as the pole continues to dig into her flesh. It takes her a moment longer to clear the sleep from her eyes, and as she blinks she finds daylight only just beginning to settle, a small sliver of light filtering in through a gap in the tent overhead.

She hears the approach of feet though, and as she turns to the entrance she sees it open and a figure duck through. Clarke gazes at Nia’s servant, the woman’s hair a messy braided knot, the curls unruly. Clarke’s eyes fall to the plate in her hands though, small slices of breads and stale cheeses on it that Clarke knows will do little to sate her hunger. 

The woman bends down in front of her and places a slice of cheese on a piece of bread before bringing it to Clarke’s mouth. It’s awkward, Clarke finds, to eat silently, the woman’s eyes ever careful as she gazes upon Clarke. 

“Thanks,” Clarke says quietly, careful to keep her voice from carrying far. 

But the woman looks at her simply before shrugging. She turns though, pulls a waterskin from her belt and then brings it up to Clarke’s lips. And so Clarke drinks, the liquid enough to satisfy her for only a while, but Clarke welcomes the cool drink as it soothes her parched throat.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” Clarke asks, her eyes drifting from the woman’s hazel eyes and then down to the scar that burrows across her cheek and dips into her lip. “You don’t need to answer,” Clarke says as she sees the woman frown briefly. “I don’t want you getting in trouble over me,” and Clarke shrugs awkwardly. 

The woman smiles quietly, her fingers firm as she squeezes Clarke’s shoulder before she stands and begins walking out of the tent.

“Hey,” Clarke whispers at her loudly. “How am I supposed to eat this,” Clarke finishes as she jerks her chin towards the plate at her feet. 

But the woman merely looks over her shoulder with an apologetic smile before ducking out.

And so Clarke sighs, her eyes falling to the food on the plate and she feels her stomach grumble loudly. 

 

* * *

 

The Azgeda war camp breaks quickly, and as Clarke is pushed out of the tent she finds many already gone, only a few warriors left, their gazes guarded as they take her bound state in. A man walks up to her though, and as Clarke eyes his scarless face she knows him to be a spy or assassin. His hair is short, dark and cropped close to his scalp. She thinks his face angular, too, she thinks it cunning, hawklike and weathered to the harshness of the Azgeda winter winds.

“Come,” he says simply as he grips the rope that ties her hands together as he begins walking towards where a few horses are tied.

Clarke follows him awkwardly, her hands outstretched before her as he pulls her forward, but she finds herself thankful that she isn’t blindfolded this time, isn’t blindly stepping behind a faceless noise she follows.

“What’s your name?” Clarke asks as she looks at the back of his head.

“Silence,” he says simply.

“I get it,” Clarke sighs. “No talking,” and she glares at the back of his head.

“No,” he says, and she thinks she sees a twitching of his cheek. “You may call me Silence,” and Clarke’s head cocks to the side as the oddness of the name sinks in. “We sacrifice our names in service to the throne,” he says in answer to the awkward silence that follows.

“I see,”and Clarke winces as he stops abruptly by a large horse, the halt jarring her shoulders.

“Up,” and he gestures upwards with an eyebrow.

“How,” Clarke asks as she waves her bound hands in front of her face.

She sees Silence sigh heavily then before he steps back and holds his hands together for her feet to step into.

“Really?” she asks. 

“You may be Wanheda,” he counters. “But you are a prisoner,” and she sees him smirk at her glare. “Up,” he finishes.

And so Clarke steps into his hands, and she knows she hears the small laughter coming from the few warriors who remain as they watch her helped onto the back of the horse like a child.

 

* * *

 

They ride for what Clarke thinks must be hours. This time, though, she finds herself thankful that she is able to watch as the land passes by, as it bleeds from rocky ground and sparse trees and into ice and snow and sleet. And she knows that they pass into Azgeda lands when the wind bites into her a little more forcefully and as it rustles her furs. She knows she senses the nervousness of the warriors who ride with her vanish, too, as they settle and ease in the familiarity of the lands around them.

Ten warriors ride with her in total, Silence guiding her horse forward from where he sits behind her, the other warriors fanning out around them, and she thinks them a guard, a barrier to attack, or rescue, depending on how she thinks of the situation.

“Where’d everyone else go?” Clarke asks after a long stretch of silence, the only sound being the drumming beat of the horses as they gallop across the ground.

“Elsewhere,” Silence answers. 

“Helpful,” Clarke mutters, and she thinks the wind steals her words until she feels Silence squeeze her harshly. 

“I allow you to speak, but do not think it allows disrespect,” he says into her ear. “Guard you tongue.”

And so Clarke’s eyes roll as she settles in for however long she has left on the horse, but as she glances into the sky she finds herself gauging the direction she travels, how much daylight has passed and how much is left to give.

 

* * *

 

It must be mid afternoon by the time they break through a shallow snow field. The snow slowly begins to be replaced by rocky outcrops, the stone jagged and black-grey. She slowly starts to see signs of life though. She eyes the way snow has been cleared, how smaller stones have been moved to clear a space for a path that begins to wind through the rocks. She hears quiet sounds of life next, and as the horse she rides on crests a hill she finds a small valley that sits carved and recessed into the sides of a mountain and in its centre a simple village, the building stone and small. And as she takes it in she feels a pang of longing for Ronto, the imagery before her eyes bringing memories of the small village to the forefront of her mind.

The horses begin their journey down and into the valley, and Clarke watches the village begins to come into focus more clearly now, the small buildings barren, signs of life barely visible. And she knows that this village is out of the way, that it draws little attention and that escape or rescue is unlikely.

Silence urges the horse forward easily, the warriors who ride with her quick to follow. 

“I guess this is where I’m staying,” Clarke says quietly as she takes in the barren village they arrive at.

“Yes,” Silence says simply as he pulls on the horse’s reins, the beast stopping easily with a flick of its head.

 

* * *

 

She limps back and forth past her bed, her jaw clenched tightly and her mind worrying. She feels her fingers close angrily around her knife handle and she feels the tension that lives in Anya’s shoulders.

“We do not know exactly where they went,” Anya says, her body weary, her braids haphazard and errant in their sticking to her forehead.

“How,” she hisses, and it comes angry and furious, but she knows that Anya knows her ire not directed at her.

“Decoys,” Anya answers tersely. “Five of them,” and she hears Gustus grunt out a curse.

“But you know they are now in Azgeda lands?” she asks as she stops mid stride as she turns to face Anya.

“Yes,” and Anya looks out the window briefly in thought. “If I were Nia I would hold Clarke somewhere quiet, out of the way,” and Anya pauses in thought. “Clarke is Wanheda, and word of her appearance would spread quickly, even if she is now being painted as a disgraced Azgeda warrior.”

“I agree, Heda,” Gustus says. “It reduces the number of villages and towns she may be held at,” and Gustus pauses for a moment as his arms cross and as he thinks over thoughts. “If they had travelled without stopping they would not even be into the deep snow yet,” and he nods to himself. “They will not try to take Clarke deeper into Azgeda yet, it would leave them vulnerable to rescue attempts once they begin crossing the snow plains.”

“I agree,” Lexa says, and as she turns back to her war table she eyes the map and the small models that lie atop it. “Perhaps Roan will know where she may be held.”

Anya’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second before narrowing as she looks at Lexa’s profile, and Lexa hears Gustus grunt out at the realisation of why Shana had acted as her not so long ago.

“You work with Roan,” Anya says as an eyebrow raises. “He is not captured or dead.”

“No, Anya,” and Lexa turns to meet her gaze. “He is not dead, he is not captured.”

“Clarke was not happy, was she,” and Anya’s lips lift up slightly into a smirk.

“No,” and Lexa shrugs once, but her thoughts begin to drift, and as she thinks over who she had seen she feels a tension begin to settle in her mind, a frustration and an anger. “Nia knows of Clarke,” and Lexa doesn’t quite meet Anya’s eyes as she voices her thoughts, as she keeps her worries internal.

Anya’s jaw clenches tightly though, and Lexa feels the woman move to the table’s edge beside her. 

“It was a risk,” Anya says simply, and Lexa knows where Anya stands on the topic, she remembers Anya’s tempered anger when she had found out, her words of caution, of thinking of the past, of not letting mistakes be repeated.

“It was,” Lexa says simply. “Nia will do the same,” and Lexa grimaces.

“We will find Clarke,” and Anya leans closer, her shoulder brushing Lexa’s now. “History will not repeat itself.”

“We have not even discussed what exists between us,” Lexa says quietly, her gaze following the line that marks the border between Trikru and Azgeda. “She is held prisoner. She will be tortured. She will suffer for something that may not yet exist,” and Lexa’s eyes close for a moment as she breathes in deeply, her mind moving too quickly for her to organise and sift through the thoughts that flit through her mind.

Anya remains quiet for a while though, her eyes careful as she takes in Lexa’s posture, the way her shoulders hunch slightly, and the way her hands clench into fists against the wood of the table’s edge. 

“You care for her,” _as you did for Costia._

And Lexa knows Anya will not voice old wounds, will not give breath to a pain she thinks lingers within her own mind, the guilt of being used by Echo, by Nia, still present in her mind.

“Yes,” Lexa says.

“You will have the chance to know that Clarke feels the same,” Anya says, her hand reaching out for a moment before settling awkwardly over Lexa’s clenched fist, the motion staccato and unfamiliar to them both.

But Lexa’s gaze follows the motion, and as she looks into Anya’s eyes she feels the woman squeeze just once before her hand settles back by her side. 

“I will send for Roan,” Lexa says into the awkwardness. “He will aid in Clarke’s rescue,” and Lexa nods to herself as she squares her shoulders and as Anya nods in turn.

 

* * *

 

It sucks.

The cold freezes into her legs, and she hates the cramp she feels already beginning to settle into her back. Thankfully her hands aren’t bound anymore, but she angrily eyes the shackle around her ankle, the rusted metal of it already wearing at the furs she wears. Clarke doesn’t even know where her belongings are. Her pelt and skull are missing, her knife has been taken. Even her father’s watch is missing. She feels the pang of guilt and regret, too, and she wishes she had taken the time to remove it before the challenge lest it be destroyed or damaged further.

Clarke stares up into the cracks of the cell she finds herself in. The floor smoothed from years of use, the walls rough, stains dripping down them, and she thinks a moss, or a fungus, or whatever kind of plant must survive the harshness of Azgeda, grows in places, the grey-green growth a furry, odd smelling thing that makes her nose twitch.

The drip continues though, and as she cranes her head further, she sees the water that seeps through a crack in the ceiling before tumbling to the floor slowly, its form coagulating, shifting, dancing in the air for only a second before it splashes onto the ground in front of her.

It’s funny, too. Memories constantly come crashing back of her time on the Ark, when she had been imprisoned, when she had been destined to be floated once she turned eighteen. She remembers the too cold, too constant ache in her bones. She remembers pacing back and forth, she remembers counting each step, and she remembers pressing her face into the wall as she imagined that the Ark’s constant humming was her father’s heart as it beat soothingly in his chest. 

But she knows those moments long gone now, all relegated to memories not quite so happy.

She remembers landing in the drop pod. She remembers waking upside down, she remembers crashing to the ground, she remembers the panic and the fear that had set in, she remembers the excitement. She remembers Ontari and their first meeting, how Ontari had been the first person she had seen, of how Ontari had choked her, had threatened her. And she smiles sadly, and she feels herself hope that Ontari not too severely punished. And she thinks of Entani, perhaps the first person to really show her kindness. She recalls the days when she had been ordered to follow Entani around, she remembers how Entani had taught her how to heal, which pastes to use, how to make her own medicines.  

Clarke smiles bitterly as the moments drift through her mind. The two years worth of memories something to cherish for however long she has left. If only because she is sure her time is soon to be exhausted, Nia’s fury at her actions, Nia’s wish for revenge clear for Clarke to understand.

She wonders what her father would think now, she wonders what he would say if he were to see the scars on her face, the cuts and bruises and markings etched into her flesh from however long it has been since she came to the ground. She thinks he would be proud though. Perhaps not of the lives she has taken, perhaps not for the things she has been willing to do. But she thinks he would be proud of why she had done them, why she had sacrificed and bled for her people.

Clarke feels the smile tug at her lips once more though as she tries to think of just how old she may be now. And she thinks twenty three, she thinks perhaps almost twenty four. But she isn’t quite so sure. But she knows the Ark would have kept track of time, would know the date. And she knows her mother would know how old she is. And maybe Clarke will have the chance to ask her before it ends. But she thinks it wishful thinking, she thinks it not quite so likely.

She hears the easy thumping of approaching feet though, and as she looks up at the door that sits in the far wall she feels the anticipation begin to return, an eagerness for things to start beginning to settle in her mind. And maybe she can argue that whatever comes next is punishment for the lives she has taken, the people she has killed.

The doors open slowly, and Clarke blinks through the harshness of the flames that burn in torches as a figure steps through the threshold before stopping in front of her.

“Clarke,” Nia says evenly as she stands in front of Clarke, the woman’s gaze looking down at her.

Clarke holds Nia’s gaze for a moment before it shifts to the guards she sees outside, the door still open, and she sees Teril standing there, his gaze quiet as he takes her in, and she sees Torvun, too, his eyes meeting hers just once before he looks away, but Clarke thinks she senses the gritting of his teeth and the quiet discomfort that lingers in the twitching of his fingers. But she knows Torvun unable to do little more than remain quiet, more royal guards standing close as they glance at her cautiously.

“Tell me, Clarke,” Nia begins softly. “When was it that you thought of overthrowing me? Of removing me from the throne?” 

And Clarke thinks over the question carefully, she tries to think of it from Nia’s perspective, she thinks of what Nia would gain, could gain, from knowing when she had decided to stop following orders. 

“During the siege of the Mountain,” Clarke says simply.

“Why,” Nia asks gently.

“Does it matter?” Clarke asks as she meets Nia’s gaze.

“Yes,” and Nia smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling.

“You told me what to do. The Commander told me what to do,” and Clarke shrugs. “I got tired of being told what to do.”

“So you decided to betray Azgeda?”

“No,” Clarke says.

“No?” and Nia’s eyebrow raises slightly. 

“Everything I have done is for my clan,” Clarke repeats her sentiment from last they had spoken.

“You are a principled fool, Clarke,” Nia counters. “When the pain begins, perhaps then you will not be so steadfast in your beliefs,” and Nia smiles lowly, her eyes turning eager, turning cold and grey. “Teril,” Nia calls over her shoulder. 

And Clarke watches as Teril steps into the room, as he begins drawing his knife, as he walks towards Clarke. Teril reaches her quickly, and she flinches slightly as he holds the knife up to her before he reaches forward with his free hand and snares a strand of her hair before slicing if off.

“It is important that all the details are correct,” Nia says simply as her gaze moves over Clarke’s face for a long moment. “Enjoy the night,” and Nia begins to turn towards the door. “It will be cold.”

 

* * *

 

Lexa’s feet pad quietly through the tunnels, her eyes scanning left and right as she traces the cracks that only become visible as she passes, the light of the torch flickering the only thing to light her way. She takes a left turn then and as she steps over a small rock, she thinks she hears the steps that echo out around her, that linger through the stone and tile that surrounds her. 

She sees the light soon, and as she begins to near she sees the light flickering off the wielder. She sees Roan look up at her approach, his hand raising easily as he leans against the wall. 

“You have heard?” Lexa asks as she nears Roan, her gaze taking in his weary state.

“Yes,” he says as he pushes off from the wall. “I do not know where she is kept,” he preempts.

And Lexa eyes him for a long moment as she considers what he may know. 

“You do not know where she is held?” she says, her chin rising slightly.

“I do not,” Roan answers. 

“But?” 

“I have an idea,” and he shrugs. “If we are to make an attempt to free her then we must be certain,” and he pauses as he lets Lexa consider his words. “You know it and I know it,” and he shrugs. “If we are wrong, then my mother will have Clarke executed before we can attempt to rescue her a second time.”

And Lexa nods slowly.

“There are only a few villages that Clarke would be held at given how little time has passed,” Roan continues. “They will not have begun crossing the great snow fields yet.”

“I agree,” Lexa says, her mind beginning to form plans and actions.

“I have sent Echo to begin to track them,” Roan says, and Lexa doesn’t miss the way Roan treads carefully over the assassin’s name. 

“You believe she will find them?” Lexa asks, but she thinks that with her past experience with Echo, that the assassin will succeed.

“Yes,” Roan says simply.

“And your warriors?” Lexa continues as she pushes worries of Clarke’s wellbeing to the back of her mind for now. “They are ready?”

“Yes, Heda,” Roan says. “Many are already in position to make moves and to isolate those who may be the most loyal to my mother.”

“Good,” and Lexa nods to herself. “Indra will begin moving the Trikru warriors at Arkadia to the border soon.”

“What of the other clans, Heda?” Roan asks. 

“They will think it merely a redistribution of Trikru forces with the end of the Mountain Men.”

“You are sure?” 

“Yes,” Lexa says. “Echo still has the radio Clarke gave her?” 

“Yes,” and Roan nods. 

“I believe they will soon prove their usefulness,” and Lexa thinks over how beneficial being able to talk over great distances may become in the next few days. “Ensure you have this with you at all times,” and Lexa reaches into a pocket before she hands over the Radio Clarke had given her.

“You have one, too?” Roan asks as he takes it, his eyes moving over the tech grasped in his hand.

“Yes,” Lexa answers, her fingers tapping against Clarke’s own radio, and Lexa tries to ignore the quietly beating pulse she feels begin to pick up speed as it pumps blood through her veins.

“Echo will send word when she has found a trail,” Roan says. “I will meet her with a few of my forces,” and he pauses in thought for a moment. “You wish for me to contact you once we know where Clarke is?”

“Yes,” Lexa says.

 

* * *

 

The first thing Ontari realises is that her hands are bound behind her and that a gag is in her mouth. The next is that her neck throbs, the sting having left it raw and itching. She feels the ground against her cheek, and as she tries to look out around her she realises her eyes are blindfolded and that her feet are tied together. But she hears a quiet groaning next to her, and from the muffled grunts she thinks Entani must lie besides her, the healer also bound and gagged. 

But she hears the feet that approach, their step crunching against the harsh bite of the ground and so Ontari stills, she lets her ears try to pinpoint the direction, how heavy the person may be, whether they be man or woman, she even tries to listen for the breathing of others, any who may be outside her striking distance.

The feet stop just short of her face though, and she thinks she can smell the musky scent of furs that have travelled far, that have weathered storms and trudged through ice and sleet. Ontari feels strong hands grip her by her shoulders before she feels herself lifted so that she sits on the ground, her legs stretched out before her.

“I am surprised you have not died yet given your performance when we first met,” comes the voice, and Ontari jolts at the familiarity of it. 

And so she blinks through the light that shines into her eyes as her blindfold is lifted and as she comes face to face with Echo who crouches before her. And Ontari snarls, her nose throbbing just slightly, the break still healing.

“Ontari,” Echo says with a lifting of her lip. 

She watches as Echo moves to Entani, who slows her struggling, as Echo begins to lift her up too so that she sits besides Ontari.

“Stop struggling,” Echo says simply as she pulls the blindfold from Entani’s eyes, the healer wincing as her ribs settle and as her eyes adjust to the burning flame of the campfire Ontari only now notices behind Echo.

Echo pulls the gag from her mouth then, and she watches as the assassin does the same for Entani who spits out onto the ground.

“Where have you been?” Ontari hisses.

“Busy,” Echo answers simply.

“Clarke sent you to find the Mountain Men yet you disappear,” Ontari says. 

But Echo stills for a moment, her gaze looking at the two captured women. 

“Why are we bound?” Entani asks, her eyes moving around her as she tries to find signs of any others who may linger close by. 

“There are no others here,” Echo says as she follows Entani’s eyes.

“Answer the question,” Entani snaps as she struggles against the rope that ties her feet together, and Ontari winces as she sees the grimace that pulls at Entani’s lips.

Echo smirks once more though as she eyes Entani’s futile struggles, though.

“Why are we bound?” Ontari echoes.

“I do not know which side you are on,” Echo says simply. 

“Azgeda,” Ontari hisses. “You betray the throne?” she finishes, her eyes darkening.

“There are many things you do not know, Ontari,” Echo says. 

“Then explain,” Ontari sneers. 

“I will in time,” and Echo chuckles quietly. “I must admit, Ontari. I enjoy this,” and Echo gestures to Ontari’s bound state.

“I will kill you,” Ontari hisses as she tries to rise, only for Echo to push firmly against her chest to seat her back on the ground.

“You will not, and you can not,” Echo counters. 

“I can try,” Ontari answers.

“But you would fail,” and Echo’s lip curls slightly as she cocks her head to the side for a moment. “Or do you not remember last time you attacked me? When you were at full strength. But now?” and Echo gestures up and down her body once. “Not so much.”

Ontari glares more harshly at Echo though, the assassin’s words leaving her angry and frustrated. 

“What do you want?” Ontari repeats.

And so Echo eyes her for a long moment, and she lets her gaze linger on the ropes that bind her feet.

“I will untie your feet. Do not try to run,” Echo says simply as she pulls a knife from her boot before bending to cut through the ropes.

And as Ontari watches, she thinks of lashing out with her foot, of striking Echo across the face and stealing her knife. And as she eyes Echo’s gaze that focuses on the ropes she thinks she feels the anticipation build, she thinks she feels her legs begin to steady, begin to prepare for the strike, prepare t—

“Do not try it,” Echo says as she looks up to meet Ontari’s eyes. “I can feel your legs preparing to strike.”

Ontari grumbles, and she thinks she hears Entani’s quiet snicker despite the predicament they find themselves in. But she sighs as the ropes unwind, as the pressure lessens and as she feels the blood begin to flow unhindered once more. Ontari watches as Echo moves to Entani, her knife quickly slashing through the ropes until both women’s feet are able to stretch and move about freely.

Echo stands as she slips her knife back into her boot. 

“Hungry?” she asks as she glances between both women. 

And Entani nods mutely as she turns her gaze to the fire, and as Ontari feels her stomach grumble, she thinks the scents of slowly cooking broth and soup waft over the wind. And so Echo smiles once as she turns and begins to ladle the broth into two bowls before coming to turn back to them. 

Echo sits before them both, and Ontari watches carefully as Echo places the first bowl in front of Entani before Echo turns her attention to her. Ontari feels the snarl lift her lips though as Echo dips a spoon into the broth before lifting it to her lips.

“I will not let you feed me like a child,” Ontari mutters as she turns her face, her lips pursing shut tightly. 

And so Echo shrugs once before placing the bowl into Ontari’s lap before offering Entani her own small spoonful. And Ontari watches as Entani merely shrugs before leaning forward and taking the spoon into her mouth with a groan, her own stomach empty and hungry. Ontari watches for a while as Echo spoons mouthfuls of food to Entani, the healer content to take what is offered with little argument. 

“How am I to eat?” Ontari says as she glances back to the bowl in her lap.

“You will figure it out,” Echo answers, her attention turning back to Entani.

And so Ontari glares at her for a moment longer before looking down at the bowl in her lap. And as she studies how it sits precariously cradled between both her thighs, she knows it will spill with little help. Ontari tries to bend though, she tries to lean forward and tuck her chin to her chest, but she feels the frustration build as her face merely sits only close enough for her to smell the spices and the meats and broth that simmer easily. Ontari glances discreetly to Entani who continues to take the spoonfuls of broth Echo offers her, and as Echo’s eyes flick to her Ontari shifts her gaze back to her own bowl.

“Do you need help?” Echo asks.

“No,” Ontari snaps as she stares at the bowl that she thinks must be quietly cooling right under her nose.


	21. Chapter 21

Ontari walks behind Echo, the assassin’s eyes moving over the horizon in the early hour. Ontari feels Entani cough slightly, the cold leaving her ribs aching. 

“Are you ok?” Ontari asks as she glances back at Entani who trudges along behind her, the snow Ontari’s body shifts enough for Entani to walk more comfortably forward.

“I am fine,” Entani says tiredly, her braids more erratic as they cling to her forehead.

“How long?” Ontari says loudly to Echo who continues to walk in front of them.

“Patience, Ontari,” Echo says as she glances over her shoulder briefly before turning back to the horizon. 

“You will not even untie our hands?” Ontari asks as she slips awkwardly on an icy patch of snow. 

“No,” Echo says simply as she pauses for a moment to glance around them. “I do not wish for you to try to escape until we arrive at our destination.”

“And where is it?” Ontari snaps.

“Somewhere,” Echo says before she begins moving again. “We arrive soon, do not delay.”

 

* * *

 

The three women walk through the snow for a long while, and Ontari’s jaw clenches angrily as she looks up into the sky to see the sun already sitting at its highest, and she knows Echo has lied about _arriving soon,_ but for now Ontari follows along, occasionally checking over her shoulder as Entani struggles to keep pace with the swiftness with which Echo walks. 

But Echo stops and lowers herself slightly as she begins trudging up a small rise in the snow.

“Wait here,” Echo says simply as she slides onto her stomach before inching forward and through the snow.

Ontari watches as Echo reaches the top of the small hill, and she thinks the assassin must be assessing whatever it is that lies beyond. Entani sighs tiredly, her furs covered in a fine layer of snow that even sits in her hair.

“It is not so bad,” Entani says simply. “At least we are in snow again and it is not so hot,” and she shrugs. “And we are not dead yet,” and Entani looks at Echo once more as she rolls her shoulders, her bound hands still behind her back. 

And Ontari feels her own hands ache slightly as the rope cuts into her wrists. 

A long bird call echoes out around them though and both women turn to look at Echo who brings a small horn to her lips as she meets the birdcall with her own, and as Ontari glances back at Entani, the healer meets her gaze with a raised eyebrow.

“We are expected,” Echo says over her shoulder as she stands and begins walking down the opposite side of the small hill. 

Entani shrugs once as Ontari grumbles her annoyance before both women begin to follow Echo’s footprints through the snow, hands bound behind their backs and their legs tiring from however far they have walked.

As they crest the hill Ontari eyes the small, rocky outcrop that sits at its base, and she sees a fire burning quietly, even small tents are erected around it, and as she continues to eye it she sees warriors moving about, their gazes careful as they watch the three newcomers who make their way down the hillside and towards the makeshift camp.

“Who are these people?” Ontari calls out to Echo who walks further ahead now. 

“You will find out,” Echo says simply as she raises a hand in greeting as a warrior lowers the bow that Ontari only now notices was trained on them.

“Who are they?” Ontari asks more angrily now, her gaze quickly counting the unfamiliar warriors and the arcs that scar their faces, their eyes narrowed and guarded in the afternoon sunlight. “Echo,” she hisses.

Echo ignores her words as she breaks through the snow, her feet finding solid, rocky ground, but Ontari stops her steps and she feels the apprehension begin to settle in as a few of the warriors move towards her. 

“I am ready,” Entani whispers from behind her, the healer already beginning to assess the situation they find themselves in. “We can attack the first, maybe take her knife.” 

“Then you run,” Ontari whispers back as she sees one smirk briefly at them as the unfamiliar warriors continue to approach.

“I will not,” Entani answers as she comes to stand besides Ontari. “We fight together,” she says as she widens her stance awkwardly. “We d—”

“Ontari!” and they both look up at the familiar voice that calls out. “Entani!” 

And Ontari follows the noise to see auburn hair bobbing in a slight breeze as Jenma approaches from the far side of the small tent.

“Jenma?” Ontari asks, her eyes narrowing as she sees the northern Azgeda warrior wave before patting one of the warriors on the shoulder. “What are you doing here?” 

“It would be easier if we showed you,” Jenma says simply as she gestures for Ontari and Entani to approach. 

But Ontari merely lifts her chin, her eyes hardening.

“What is happening?” Ontari says as she takes in the sigh that escapes Jenma’s lips.

“If I free your hands will you come?” she asks as she draws a knife.

Ontari takes a moment to think over Jenma’s offer, and she feels Entani do the same, and as their eyes meet she sees Entani nod her head and so Ontari turns back to Jenma and nods once in acceptance. She watches as Jenma steps forward cautiously, gaze moving between her and Entani before the northern Azgeda warrior comes to stand behind her.

Ontari winces only briefly as she feels the ropes pull at her wrist, but then Jenma’s knife slices through and she feels the blood begin to rush to her fingers unhindered and she takes the time to stretch them out, to rub at her wrists and she watches carefully as Jenma finishes removing Entani’s binds before stepping from them. 

“Come,” Jenma says simply as she begins walking back the small distance to the camp, Echo still waiting at its edge. 

And so Ontari follows, Entani close by her side. And Ontari notices that the Azgeda warriors that watch them carefully come from the north, their scars half circles, arcs that slash across temples and cheeks. 

“Why are the northern Azgeda here?” Ontari asks Echo who walks besides her her now

“You will find out soon,” the assassin says simply. 

Ontari grunts her annoyance, and she feels Entani’s gaze watch the few Azgeda who begin to move with them through the small campsite, and Ontari takes in the few tents that spread out, and she thinks that this camp a temporary, quickly abandoned site that could disappear rapidly. 

Echo begins to lead them to one of the tents in the centre of the camp and she holds a hand up once before she ducks inside. Ontari eyes the thick fabric that hides whoever remains inside the tent, and she feels Jenma smile slightly besides her, the warrior clearly eager for whoever is inside to meet them.

Echo steps out quickly, her head nodding once to Jenma who returns the nod before she walks back to the campfire.

“Your answers,” Echo says simply as she stands aside, hand holding open the tent flap for Ontari and Entani to enter.

And so Ontari eyes the assassin for a wary second before she ducks inside. Her eyes adjust quickly to the darker light, and she feels the heat of burning coals that warm the interior of the tent. And she takes in the furs that line the flooring and the table that sits in its centre, a map of Azgeda lands draped over it. Ontari thinks she feels her neck begin to prickle and her body begin to tense at the recognition of the royal marks that splash across a pristine white fur that hangs from the ceiling and hides, what Ontari assumes, a small sleeping space.

“Ontari,” and the voice comes gravelly, rough, filled with a quiet humour. “Entani.”

“Prince Roan,” Ontari whispers as her head bows and as Entani gasps out in surprise before bowing her head too.

Roan pauses for a moment and Ontari is sure he studies them both in the silence that lingers. “How are your ribs?” Roan asks Entani, and Ontari is sure his eyes move over the harder leathers that strap Entani’s waist. 

“Fine, Prince Roan,” Entani answers quickly, head still bowed. 

“You may rise,” Roan says from where he sits in a chair at the other end of the tent, his eyes taking in both women.

Ontari takes a moment to raise her head, but as she does she eyes Roan carefully, and she sees signs of weariness, of travel and time spent on the move. 

“I do not think your ribs are fine,” Roan counters though, his eyes meeting Entani’s.

“They are o—”

“Do not lie to me,” Roan says evenly, his gaze tracking over the way Entani holds herself carefully. 

“Forgive me, Prince Roan.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” he says simply. “Sit,” he gestures, and Ontari’s eyes follow the motion to where two chairs sit besides the table.

And so both women move to the chairs and sit into them awkwardly, and Ontari briefly glances at Echo who remains at the tent’s entrance, her eyes following both women and their movements.

“Tell me how it happened,” Roan says to Entani, and Ontari feels her shift nervously as Roan’s gaze bores into her for a moment.

“We were ambushed,” Entani begins, her fingers gripping her knees tightly as the memories begin to surface, and Ontari leans closer to her in support.

“They used tech and it injured and killed us,” Ontari adds nervously, the reason for Prince Roan’s question not quite so clear for her to understand.

“And that is how you were injured?” Roan asks carefully. 

“Yes, Prince Roan,” Entani answers. 

“Did it hurt?” he asks, his head tilting to the side slowly as he takes in both women. 

“No,” Entani answers quickly, her chin raising.

“Do not lie to me, Entani,” he says simply. “But I will assume it did.”

Roan falls silent for a moment longer then, and Ontari takes the time to study him briefly, and as her gaze shifts over his body she thinks over what she knows of his doings since the fall of the Mountain, since he had left and returned to Azgeda lands.

“Prince Roan?” Ontari asks carefully. And she sees him nod his head once for her to continue. “If I may, where have you been?” and she averts her gaze quickly as his eyes snap to her face. “I do not mean to offend, it is not my place to question,” she stammers.

“Rest easy, Ontari,” Roan says, and she thinks she hears a gentle mirth living in the timbre of his words. “I am not my mother. You may ask questions,” and she feels Entani shift uncomfortably in the chair for a second. “There are many things you do not know,” Roan begins, his fingers beginning to drum against the arm of the chair. “Your wounds,” and Roan’s gaze shifts back to Entani. “Show me,” and Ontari’s eyes widen slightly as she glances to Entani. 

And the healer’s own gaze turns guarded for a moment, her eyes shifting from Roan and then down to her feet. 

“Lift your furs, Entani,” Roan says simply.

And so Entani’s fingers begin to unwrap the stiff leathers that brace her torso, and Ontari watches nervously as she sees Entani wince at the motions, and Ontari thinks of reaching out, of trying to help, of offering to help, but she knows Entani would merely ignore her. Entani’s fingers still for only a moment as she thumbs the hem of her furs, and she meets Ontari’s gaze, and Ontari thinks she sees Entani steady her thoughts just once. And then she lifts. 

Ontari watches as Entani lifts the furs to expose her ribs, and as they pull up Ontari eyes the gruesome scar that runs horizontally across the left side of her torso. The scar runs deep, but narrow, the flesh still red, slight bruising around the sides, and Ontari knows it must still hurt, despite the best efforts of the Skaikru healers. 

“The Mountain Men did this to her?” Roan asks Ontari, and she nods mutely as she turns her gaze from Entani’s wound.

Roan falls silent once more, and she watches as Entani lowers her furs and begins to strap the firmer leathers around her torso, the braces enough to keep her body steady.

“How is Clarke?” Roan asks after Entani finishes, and Ontari looks up in surprise. 

“You do not know?” and Ontari feels surprise flit through her mind as to why Roan asks of Clarke, of what she has done, of where she may be held.

“That is not what I asked,” Roan counters. And Ontari thinks Roan must now be searching for evidence to accuse Clarke of whatever Nia thinks she has done, and Ontari thinks she feels Entani stiffen besides her, and she knows Clarke’s fate now lies in their hands.

“Clarke was well last we spoke,” Ontari says carefully.

“You do not know what she has done?” Roan questions.

“She would only act in what she believed to be the best interests of Azgeda, Prince Roan,” Ontari answers, her chin lifting slightly as she holds his gaze, but as she sees his lips turn up slightly she knows she feels worry and fear linger in her heart as thoughts of Clarke’s fate begin to settle.

“You are sure?” Roan says.

“Yes, Prince Roan,” and Ontari looks away for a moment, and she thinks over what she had discussed with Entani, of the things they had agreed to do before Echo had poisoned them. “Prince Roan,” she begins, her tongue wetting her lips briefly, and she knows Entani senses what she will ask because the healer straightens her back and raises her chin, too. “We are wiling to accept responsibility for Clarke’s future actions. If it is possible we would take her west, we would watch her, ensure she does no other things to anger Kwin Nia,” and Ontari feels her heart begin to beat more fiercely in her chest as she sees Roan smile just a slight bit more widely. 

“You would do that for Clarke?” 

“Yes,” Both women answer.

“I see,” and Roan gestures behind them. “Leave us, Echo,” and Ontari glances over her shoulder to see Echo bow her head once before she ducks out of the tent. “There are many things you do not know,” Roan begins after a moment. 

Ontari feels her eyebrows quirk together in confusion though, and she finds herself not quite sure where Roan takes this conversation.

“How do you think the Mountain Men evaded capture and discovery for so long?” Roan asks.

“I do not know,” Ontari answers truthfully, “perhaps they used their tech to hide their tracks?” 

“Do you know of which villages were attacked?” Roan asks.

“Trikru villages were attacked,” and Ontari thinks for a moment longer. “The Mountain Men stole from Azgeda too, but we have not had many deaths I do not think,” and Ontari glances once to Entani to see her nod in agreement.

“Does that not strike you as bizarre?” Roan asks.

“It shows that Azgeda are more capable than Trikru,” Ontari answers confidently.

“Perhaps,” Roan smirks. “Or perhaps it indicates a different reason,” and he leans forward. “Do you know what Clarke was ordered to do during the siege of the Mountain?” he asks. “Do you know how she secured my freedom from the Commander?”

“I do not know what she was ordered to do,” Ontari says cautiously. “But Clarke said she threatened the Commander, she said she demanded your release or Azgeda would leave.”

“Clarke was ordered to secure the Mountain solely for Azgeda,” Roan says simply, and Ontari’s eyes widen and she hears Entani take a shallow breath. “She did not.”

And Ontari’s eyes close, and she knows she curses quietly as she tries to think of how to explain Clarke’s actions, of how best to defend her. 

“Clarke secured the Mountain for all clans, Prince Roan,” she begins. “Perhaps she misunderstood her orders?”

“She did not,” Roan says. “Do you know why Clarke was ordered to take the Mountain for Azgeda?”

“No,” and Ontari bites her lip for a moment. 

“Our Kwin wished to use the Mountain to gain power over all other clans,” and Roan’s eyes narrow slightly as he takes them in once more.

Ontari looks away for a moment in thought, and she thinks over why Clarke would have not done what she had been instructed to do, and she thinks of the wars that may have been waged, the deaths and the battles that would have taken place if Clarke were to have done so. 

“Azgeda would have succeeded in any war if we had the Mountain’s power,” she says.

“Perhaps,” Roan answers. “But how many of our people would have died?” Roan asks. 

“Many,” Entani says, her eyes moving over to the map on the tabletop. “Thousands,” Entani finishes.

“We would have been victorious,” Ontari quickly adds.

“I do not believe so,” Roan counters. “Our Kwin wished to wage war over all other clans. She wished to use the Mountain’s power to her advantage.” 

“But Clarke did not take the Mountain for Azgeda?” Ontari asks.

“And that is why she is now held captive?” Entani adds as she glances between Roan and Ontari. 

And Ontari thinks it understandable, she thinks Clarke must have misunderstood Nia’s wishes, but she knows Clarke would have thought it foolish to wage war on all clans.

“It must have been a misunderstanding, Prince Roan,” she says. “Clarke simply assumed that Kwin Nia wanted Azgeda to have a part in the Mountain’s control, and not to control it completely.”

“I disagree with what Kwin Nia wishes for Azgeda,” Roan says, his eyes moving slowly from woman to woman before him. “I do not think war with all other clans will be good for our people.”

Ontari licks her lips nervously at Roan’s words though, and she feels herself beginning to sweat slightly, the direction this conversation begins to move leaving her feeling trapped and uncertain of how she should act and react.

“Clarke also disagreed with taking the Mountain so that Azgeda could throw the Coalition into open war,” Roan continues, his gaze holding Entani’s for a moment. 

“It was a misunderstanding,” Ontari echoes, “Clarke would not purposely disobey orders.” 

And Ontari glances quickly to Entani who remains quiet now, her eyes focused on the map on the table.

“It was not a misunderstanding, Ontari,” and the healer turns back to her. “Clarke refused to follow her orders,” Entani finishes. 

“No,” Ontari stammers. “She is loyal, Prince Roan, I swear it.” 

Roan sighs heavily, and Ontari feels Entani’s head cock to the side as they both watch Roan recline in the chair he sits in.

“You do not understand,” Entani says as she looks at Ontari. “Clarke did not follow Kwin Nia’s orders,” and Entani looks back to Roan. “And Prince Roan does not follow Kwin Nia’s orders, too.”

And Ontari’s eyes widen as she looks from Entani to Roan. 

“I don’t understand,” Ontari says quietly.

“Prince Roan and Clarke work together,” Entani says. “They wish to overthrow Kwin Nia.”

“No,” and Ontari shakes her head forcefully.

 

* * *

 

Clarke’s eyes crack open, and as she rolls over the stone she feels the aches in her body. Her ankle hurts, too, the chain that keeps her from wandering too far already biting into her skin. She feels the matted furs that rub against her cheek, the dried blood beginning to clump the furs together. And she knows she will need to have new furs made, the ones she wears far too dirtied to be salvaged.

Clarke brings a hand to her face then, and she winces as her fingers brush against her split lip, and she thinks her face must be bloodied, bruised by now. She grimaces as she brings her hand away, the nails of two of her fingers already torn savagely, the nail-bed bloodied and fleshy.

But her door opens and Clarke turns to look at who now enters. She can’t help but recoil slightly as Nia steps into the room, Teril and Torvun and two other guards flanking her. 

“Do you wish to talk?” Nia says evenly, her eyes skirting over Clarke’s body as she struggles to her knees in front of Nia.

Clarke winces at the dryness and roughness she feels scratch through her throat as she swallows painfully and as she glares into Nia’s face.

“No?” Nia smiles. “I did not think so,” and she shrugs just once. “It would have been too easy for you to break so quickly. But which one of my guards will beat you this time?” 

And Clarke merely glares at her harshly, her gaze icy and defiant. 

“Torvun,” Nia says though, and Clarke’s eyes snap to Torvun to see him glance briefly at Nia before meeting Clarke’s eyes, and Clarke thinks she sees a tension in Torvun’s shoulders, she thinks she sees an uncertainty and a pause and a reluctance that lingers in his eyes, and she knows he doesn’t wish to follow orders, doesn’t wish to strike her. 

But Nia must sense it too, because she turns to face Torvun, her eyes hardening.

“You disappoint me,” Nia says to Torvun, and Clarke’s eyes widen as the two other guards step forward quickly, one gripping Torvun’s wrist as he bends it back, the second kicking his legs out from under him savagely. 

Clarke grimaces as Torvun is forced to the ground, the man letting out a grunt of pain as a guard’s knee presses against the side of his neck, the other holding his arm out behind him. 

“First you turn Roan against me,” and Nia sneers. “Then you turn Ontari. And now poor Torvun,” and Nia sweeps her hand towards Torvun who remains quiet against the ground. “Their suffering is caused by you, Clarke,” Nia says as she turns and exits the cold room, the two other guards lifting Torvun to his knees as they begin pulling him out behind her. 

But Teril remains standing in front of her, his eyes hard and guarded, the usual mirth hidden now as he looks down at Clarke from where he stands in the open doorway. And Clarke knows what comes next, what she will soon experience.

“I do not enjoy this,” Teril says simply as he closes the door behind him, the rusting metal scraping loudly as it shuts. 

“Then don’t do it,” Clarke mutters as she glares up at him. 

“We all have a part to play,” Teril answers with a shrug. “it will be quick,” he finishes as he raises a hand in preparation to strike her.

And true to his word, Clarke only feels the first five strikes before consciousness slips from her mind.

 

* * *

 

Clarke wakes with a start, and she grimaces and groans as she feels the fresh stinging in her finger tips, and she knows more nails must be gone now. And as wakefulness begins to take hold she feels the ache in her jaw, and the bruising around her throat. But she jolts as she feels a cool dampness brush against her cheek. Her eyes open cautiously to find Nia’s servant kneeling before her on the stone, a small healer’s pack in her lap, a damp cloth in her hands.

The woman smiles apologetically as she sees Clarke wince, but she continues to bring the cloth against Clarke’s wounds with a gentle pressure.

“It’s pointless,” Clarke whimpers as she begins to sit carefully. “You’ll just have to do this again tomorrow,” she finishes as she glances at her finger tips. 

And Clarke sees the woman’s eyebrows quirk together, she sees her look away for a brief moment as she wars with thoughts that drift through her mind.

“I do not mind,” the woman says eventually, and Clarke feels her lips pull up at the corners, the motion shallow as to avoid irritating her already swollen and broken lip.

“You talk,” Clarke says.

“I do,” the woman smiles gingerly. 

“How long was I unconscious for?” Clarke asks painfully. 

“Almost a day,” the woman says quietly. 

Clarke nods lowly as the woman shrugs just once before gesturing for Clarke to extend her fingers. 

“This will sting,” the woman says as she eyes Clarke’s raw nail-beds.

“It’s ok,” and Clarke clenches her jaw as the woman begins to apply a small paste, and she feels it burn and water her eyes. “Thank you,” Clarke whimpers as the woman releases her hand. 

“You are welcome,” the woman answers. 

“Why?” Clarke finds herself asking though, her gaze falling to the healer’s pack once more.

“Nia will not want you to die of infection so soon,” the woman says, her gaze looking away. “It will last quite some time,” she finishes. 

“Oh,” and Clarke doesn’t even think she knows what it is she feels in this moment. 

She knows the pain that has come is merely the start, the first few days just an opening, just a tease for what she knows her next few weeks will be.

“What is it like?” the woman asks, her eyes gentle in the flickering of a flame.

“What?” Clarke asks as she watches the woman bring paste to her other fingers now.

“The Coalition,” the woman says. “Skaikru, no Mountain,” and Clarke thinks she sees a longing in the hazel eyes that hold her attention.

“You don’t know?” Clarke asks.

“No,” the woman replies.

“But you were there in Polis,” Clarke counters quietly.

“I do not have the luxury of travelling where I wish,” the woman answers sadly. 

“Oh,” and Clarke feels a small pang of guilt and sadness, and as she eyes the scar that splits the woman’s cheek, Clarke finds herself feeling sorry for her, just a little. “It’s good,” Clarke begins. “The Mountain is being used to heal and provide for all the clans now,” and she sees the woman smile slightly. “There’s warriors from all clans there, some clans have more than others, but we all try to get along.”

“That is good to hear,” the woman says. “What of Skaikru?” she asks, “you were with Skaikru, weren’t you?”

“Yeah,” and Clarke worries her lip for a moment, and as she finds the woman holding her gaze eagerly Clarke can’t help but to think that this perhaps a ploy of Nia’s.

“You think I am a spy, don’t you,” the woman says. “Do not deny it, I can see it in your eyes,” and she squeezes Clarke’s hand briefly. “It is ok. I do not blame you, Clarke,” and the woman looks away briefly. “I would not trust me either.”

“Sorry,” Clarke whispers.

The woman smiles once more before turning to a cut Clarke only now noticed on her forearm. The woman starts suturing her wound then, and Clarke watches as her scarred fingers move swiftly, nimbly in their motions as she brings needle and thread through Clarke’s flesh. 

The woman looks into Clarke’s eyes once more, and Clarke thinks she can sense the woman war with a question for a long moment.

“You can ask it,” Clarke urges quietly, her lips cracking as she smiles slightly. 

And so the woman takes a steadying breath, her fingers twitching. 

“The Commander,” the woman begins. “How is sh—”

A loud clanging echoes through the room and the woman rises quickly as she takes hold of her healer’s pack and swings it over her shoulder.

“I must go,” she says with a quick nod before she paces to the door that already begins to swing open to reveal a guard who eyes her carefully.

 

* * *

 

Clarke feels the ice water drench her and she she feels her naked body shiver and freeze and tremble, she curls herself into a ball and she tries to hold back the chattering of her teeth and the pain that lingers against her flesh. The guard empties the rest of the bucket over her before throwing it to the ground, the clanging enough to pierce Clarke’s ears with each bounce over the harsh stone flooring.

The man steps from the room though, the door screeching open as he nods once to Nia’s servant who steps inside quietly, her eyes downcast as she cradles a pack to her body as the doors close behind her.

“Here,” she says quietly as she hands Clarke a large pelt, the fur rough and coarse before placing fresher clothes on the ground for Clarke to wear. 

“Thank you,” Clarke whispers as she wraps it around herself, the fur enough to warm and dry her body for the time being.

It doesn’t take her long to dry herself and to finish dressing herself with the awkward help of the woman who averts her gaze as best as possible. But as they finish Clarke sits in silence as the woman applies paste to her fingertips and to the cuts and bruises that litter her body. An occasional wince falls from Clarke’s lips only for the woman to apologise quietly before continuing with her task. Clarke studies her some more though, and as she thinks over the things she knows and the things she has seen, a realisation slowly dawns over her. And she knows the woman is not to speak, and Clarke thinks that each time she has seen her was when she was in direct service to Nia, or in accompaniment of a guard.

“You’re a prisoner, aren’t you?” she asks quietly, and she sees the woman’s fingers pause, her eyes glancing up into Clarke’s for a moment. 

“Yes,” the woman says simply. 

“What clan are you from?” Clarke finds herself asking.

“Trikru,” the woman replies. 

“We can work together,” Clarke begins quietly, her eyes just once moving to the door before snapping back to the woman’s. “We can try to escape together. I don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to, and I’m betting you don’t either,” she finishes. 

But the woman holds her gaze for a long moment, her fingers slowing in their motions. 

“I have tried to escape five times,” the woman says simply. “The first time I was given this,” and she gestures to the scar on her cheek. “The second they broke all my fingers,” and she holds up her hands, and Clarke thinks she can see the way her fingers twitch ever so slightly, the nerves damaged and ruined. “The third,” and the woman lifts the hem of her shirt to expose her stomach, a scar running diagonally down to her hip. “The fourth,” and she cocks her head to the side to reveal a small scar that etches against the underside of her jaw. “The fifth,” and she pulls her hair to the side to reveal a patch of burnt and scarred skin on the side of her head. “There is no escape other than death, Clarke,” she finishes.

“But you have me,” Clarke whispers. “With two of us we could escape,” and Clarke lets her eyes turn beseeching and pleading. “I know these lands well enough that if we get out of the village we’ve got a chance,” and Clarke glances just once more to the door. “And it’s clear they don’t think you’ll try again or else you wouldn’t be allowed to walk around,” and Clarke jerks her chin to the door. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

And the woman looks away for a moment, her jaw clenching and her thoughts turning rapidly. 

“You are not wrong,” the woman says in answer. 

“The guard, the one with Nia, bald, big beard,” and Clarke gestures awkwardly to the door. “Is he still here?” 

“Two scars on his forehead?” the woman asks as she swipes two fingers across her forehead.

“Yes,” and Clarke smiles. 

“He is held captive, too,” the woman says. “Nia was furious that he did not beat you,” and the woman looks away for a moment.

“He’ll help us escape if you can get him free, too,” Clarke says quietly. “We can get out of this, and you can go home to Trikru. Do you have family? A village?”

“Ton DC,” the woman says quietly. 

And Clarke smiles, “was Indra the village chief when you were there?” Clarke asks. 

“Yes,” the woman says, her lips beginning to smile just a little more openly now. “I will return tomorrow,” the woman says as she glances behind her. “Stay strong, Clarke,” she says as she begins to stand.

“Hey,” Clarke whispers to her as the woman begins moving to the door. “What’s your name?”

And the woman looks away for just a moment before she meets Clarke’s eyes with a smile. 

“Co—”

The door slams open, the sound causing the woman to jolt in surprise and drop the healer’s pack in her arms. 

“You speak to her?” the guard says, his eyes glancing from Clarke and then to the woman.

“We weren’t talking,” Clarke says quickly. 

But she knows the man doesn’t believe her when he smiles, when he races forward and strikes the woman across the face and kicks her legs out from under her before gripping her around the throat and pulling her to him, her knees dragging against the stone. 

“You know the rules,” he hisses as he begins to drag the woman out of the dungeon by her throat, one hand fisting in her hair tightly.


	22. Chapter 22

Pain seems ever constant, and as she dips the cloth into the water Costia feels her ribs ache sharply, but after all these times she thinks, she knows they aren’t broken. Not quite, at least. Costia’s eyes follow the dripping of the blood that pools into the small water basin on her table, the water murky from the blood that still slips from her nose. 

Her eyes trace the scar in her reflection, the face aged, weathered, beaten and unfamiliar to the youthful memories she wishes would replace her cold nights. Costia looks out the window then, and she watches the wind pick up a snow pile, as it floats the snowflakes through the air and as the sun glitters through it for a moment. 

She’s not even sure how long it has been, maybe six years, perhaps seven. But she knows it long enough for people to have moved on, to have mourned and felt the loss and the pain and the suffering her disappearance would have caused. She thinks of Clarke, too, the woman with the golden hair, the fire in her eyes, and she smiles because she thinks she can see why Lexa was drawn to her, why Lexa would have been willing to open herself. Costia smiles slightly as she thinks of Lexa, of how much Lexa has achieved, how much she accomplished despite her set backs. But above all, Costia thinks she feels a sense of happiness, or maybe it’s contentedness, that Lexa was able to move on, that she didn’t lose herself to the pain of a lost love. 

Costia smiles just once, wipes a finger across her eyes and steadies her mind, and she knows what she will do may be her last act of defiance. But a knock echoes through her small room and as she turns she eyes the shadow that slips under the doorframe.

She opens the door cautiously, her eyes taking in the man that stands before her, and she eyes the scarless face and the way his eyes move slightly over her features. The man looks behind himself just once before he steps into her room and closes the door behind him.

“I know who you are,” he says simply as his hand falls to a knife she thinks well hidden in his furs.

And Costia takes in his angular features, the way his eyes shift over everything in her sparse room and the way she stands back and away from him, his own eyes careful as he takes her in.

“I know you do not talk,” he continues as he shrugs off a bow that Costia only just notices was hidden discretely inside his long fur coat, and she watches as he places down a small bundle of arrows onto her bed. “My name is Silence,” he says, as he steps away from the bow and arrows. 

Costia’s eyes turn guarded now, and she watches and listens and remains silent, for surely this must be a test, a game of Nia’s. 

“I knew your friend, Talanah,” Silence continues, and Costia’s eyes narrow at the name, and she feels an anger begin to build at the assassin who had made a fool of her, who had stolen her away, had been the cause of years of pain and suffering.

“What do you want?” Costia says, and she sees his eyes smile for a moment as she lets her voice whisper out to him.

“I have convinced Nia to execute the prisoners,” he says. 

Costia’s eyes narrow, her mind trying to arrange his words and actions into the puzzle she know them to be.

“You will rescue them,” he continues. 

“I will not,” she says, thoughts of a trap still lingering back in the recesses of her mind. 

“You think this a ploy of Nia’s?” he asks, his eyebrow raising.

Costia nods mutely, her eyes moving to the bow and arrows that lie on her bed. Silence smiles at her for a longer moment. 

“You do not have to believe me,” he shrugs. “Nia will throw Azgeda into war with the other clans. I do not want that. I do not want to see Azgeda turned into a relic of the past,” and he gestures to the bow. “Do not be found with that,” and he thinks for a moment. “I do not know when the execution will take place, but it will be in the rocks,” and he shrugs at her narrowed eyes. “Nia believes that executing Wanheda quietly will be easier to control. She does not want her death to martyr her, to seed doubt or confusion amongst Azgeda,” he says in answer to her silence. “But most of all?” and he leans closer. “It will give you an opportunity to intervene with few able to interfere or stop you.”

“Why?” Costia says cautiously. 

“I want what is best for Azgeda,” he shrugs. “As do many others in positions to do something about it.”

“Why do you not rescue Clarke?” Costia corrects. “Why do you want me to do it?” 

“If you fail then I am still in a position to serve my King,” he says simply. “Do not be found with that,” he finishes before nodding to her and slipping out of her room.

 

* * *

 

The words don’t quite sink in, and as she holds Roan’s gaze she thinks she feels her skin begin to crawl and itch and burn in the chair. Ontari’s eyes shift from Roan and to the table where she eyes markings of villages, and models that sit atop it, and as she takes them in she realises that they must be armies, groups of warriors ready to move and to take over at a moment’s notice. 

Ontari looks over her shoulder and to the tent’s entrance, and she feels her fingers clench tightly, and she thinks of standing she thinks of leaving, of walking out of the tent, of even fighting her way to safety if it comes to it. All to warn Nia, to warn Azgeda of the coup, the traitors and the plotters.

“Sit,” Roan says loudly, his voice ringing out through the small tent, and as Ontari turns back to him it surprises her to find that she has stood up, that her feet have taken her halfway to the tent’s entrance. “Sit,” Roan says, his voice hardening as he stares at her, his eyes gleaming brightly and his hand resting against the knife Ontari notices against his hip. “I will not repeat myself, Ontari,” and he inclines his head to her vacant chair.

Ontari feels her fingers twitch though, and she turns from the chair to the tent’s entrance and back, her mind not sure how to deal with what happens, what is occurring. 

“Sit, Ontari,” Entani whispers, her hands gripping her knees tightly as she sits in her own chair. 

And Ontari does so, her feet dragging against the furs as she sits back in the chair. Ontari stares blankly at Roan for a long while, and her mouth opens once, twice, but she closes it, and she feels a muscle in her neck begin to twitch.

“You will not even ask what it is that we do?” and Ontari shakes her head mutely. “Not even why?” and Roan smirks at Ontari’s awkward silence.

Entani shifts awkwardly though, her gaze moving from Ontari and then back to Roan. “Why?” she asks meekly.

Roan’s attention shifts to Entani, and he pauses for a long moment. 

“Kwin Nia works with the Mountain Men,” he says simply.

And Ontari’s eyes widen, she feels the doubt begin to rise once more and she feels her fingers dig painfully into her thighs. 

“You do not believe me?” Roan says, his lips curling up slightly.

“Kwin Nia would not work with the Mountain Men,” Ontari says. “She would not,” and Ontari looks once at Entani before turning back to Roan who remains quiet in the chair. “She would not,” Ontari finishes with a quiet whisper. 

Roan’s gaze moves to the tent entrance though, “bring him in,” Roan calls out. 

Both women turn to the entrance to see Echo walk in, her hands pushing a hooded figure into the tent before she forces them onto their knees. Two other figures follow Echo into the tent, too, and Ontari’s eyes narrow as she recognises Anya, the Trikru general, scowl firmly in place as she eyes Entani and Ontari both. Ontari’s gaze shifts to the second woman though, and she thinks she recognises the face, finds it familiar, finds it known, despite the difference in clothes, in the subtleness of colours and the muted tones of the leathers.

“You,” Ontari hisses as their eyes lock, fury beginning to swell, beginning to boil, and she thinks she will regret her actions at a later time, when her knuckles are bloodied, when her anger is vented. “This is your fault. Clarke would not be in danger if it was not for you,” she snarls as she takes a step forward. “You poison her mind. You twist her actions,” and she steps forward, but as she approaches she sees the woman’s eyebrow raise in challenge, her eyes smirking slightly.

And so Ontari lunges, she kicks the chair in distraction as she races forward and as she swings a fist at the woman’s face.

“This is your fault,” Ontari snarls as they crash together, “Clarke would no—”

But Ontari never finishes her words, she feels the woman tense for only a moment as their bodies collide, but then she feels the woman bend, she feels the woman lash out with an elbow, and she feels the strike smack against her jaw hard enough to stun and to disorientate, and then Ontari feels herself flipped over a shoulder, she feels herself slammed to the ground, and she feels the woman rest a knee against her throat as she grips her arm tightly, the twisting of her limb enough to immobilise her movements for the moment.

“I apologise,” and Roan stands cautiously, the outburst sudden, but as Ontari’s furious gaze shifts to the Prince she sees him smirk briefly, and she is sure her outburst was to be expected, even anticipated given her current predicament.

“Get off me,” Ontari snarls at the woman, her hands now pushing against the knee pressed against her throat.

“You will not attack me again?” the woman asks, her eyes flashing in the torch light for a moment longer. 

Ontari clenches her jaw, and she feels the knee press more firmly against her throat.

“I will not,” Ontari snarls. 

And so Lexa rises, her knee lingering only for a moment longer against Ontari’s throat before she takes a stand besides Anya, the trikru general still watching the events unfold easily.

“You are lucky that you are friends with Clarke,” Anya begins, her eyes drilling into Ontari now, “if not then your attack would be cause for punishment.”

And Ontari glares harshly at the woman before her gaze shifts to Lexa who stands behind the hooded figure. She watches as the Commander removes the hood to reveal Jaha, his eyes blinking in the dark of the tent as his gaze moves from person to person he sees. 

“Tell her,” Roan begins once more as he sits back into his chair, his eyes now holding Jaha’s.

Ontari watches as Jaha looks around briefly before his gaze meets hers, and she sees the signs of weariness and pain etched into his face. 

“Nia helped us,” he says simply, and Ontari’s eyes burrow into his, she stares for a long while as his words swim through her mind, as he holds her gaze and as he shifts uncomfortably on his knees. 

Ontari begins to feel the anger rise once more though, she feels her frustration and denial begin settle and she feels her fists clench tightly.

“It makes sense,” Entani says quietly, her fingers squeezing Ontari’s elbow carefully. “It makes sense, Ontari,” she repeats.

“It does not,” Ontari says, her eyes moving to Lexa’s for a moment to see the woman staring at her blankly, her thoughts well guarded, her eyes steady.

“It does,” Entani says. “How else have they evaded capture for so long?” and Ontari feels her tug on her elbow. “How else did they mask their tracks so effectively that not even Azgeda assassins could find them?”

“Kwin Nia would not betray Azgeda,” Ontari says, and she feels her lip begin to tremble. “She would not.”

“Onti,” and she feels Entani squeeze her elbow once more before she comes to stand in front of her. “It makes sense.”

“No,” Ontari shakes her head and she knows her lip trembles more openly now. 

“How did they ambush us?” Entani pushes quietly, “how did they know we were coming?”

“Scouts,” Ontari says meekly. 

“Who sent us to them?” Entani counters. “They knew which direction we were coming from. And the attack on Skaikru? How did they infiltrate so far into Trikru lands without being spotted?” 

Ontari’s eyes close tightly, and she knows she feels the tears that begin to slip from her eyes as Entani’s words slowly sink in. 

“She wouldn’t,” Ontari whispers, her head beginning to shake back and forth. “She wouldn’t.”

But she feels Entani take her in an embrace, she feels Entani ignore the pain of her ribs as she holds her close and as she presses her lips to the side of her head in comfort. 

“It is ok, Onti. You will be ok,” she says quietly. 

But Ontari thinks that a lie.

 

* * *

 

Entani follows Ontari quietly, the other woman pushing through the shallow blanket of snow mutely, her thoughts clearly elsewhere. But Ontari stops after a moment, her eyes trained on the snow at her feet, her fists clenched tightly, and her breathing shallow and broken by an occasional sniffle.

“Do you wish to talk?” Entani asks as she comes to stop besides Ontari. 

“No,” Ontari says, her eyes not willing to meet Entani’s gaze. 

Entani sighs though, and she glances around them in search of a rock or a stone, but seeing nothing to use as a seat, she finds herself content lounging in the snow, her legs kicking out at the snow as she looks up into the blue sky overhead.

“Sit, at least,” Entani says as she looks to Ontari who remains standing. 

It takes a moment longer for Ontari to shake whatever thoughts run through her mind, but the woman sits carefully, her gaze not quite meeting Entani’s.

“It makes sense,” Entani repeats quietly, her eyes gazing at Ontari’s profile for a moment. 

Ontari nods numbly though, her eyes beginning to trace over the ripples of the snow they sit in. 

Entani waits for her to voice her thoughts, to utter a sound or a curse or her usual bravado, but as Ontari remains silent Entani merely lets her mind wander, and she begins to think of where Clarke may be, what may be happening to her in this moment. She even thinks of what it must mean to have Prince Roan here, what must be about to happen within Azgeda. She even tries to consider what the Commander’s presence means for her clan’s future. 

But Entani catches movement in the corner of her eye, and as she gazes carefully towards Ontari she sees her shoulders begin to shake, her eyes clenched tightly and her hands fisting on her knees as tears begin to trail down her cheeks.

“Onti,” she whispers quietly as she shifts closer to her ignoring the ever constant ache in her ribs. “It will be ok,” she says as she brings an arm around her friend’s shoulders. 

“It is my fault,” Ontari whispers, her voice coming ragged, pained and broken. “If I had paid more attention. If I had been more loyal, a better warrior I could have seen what was happening,” Ontari says, her voice breaking at the end of her words.

“No one could have known,” Entani counter. 

“I should have,” and Ontari shakes her head forcefully, her eyes still closed. “It is my fault,” and she wipes a hand across her cheek messily. “If I was not so weak I could have stopped it, I could have done more.”

“No one could know,” Entani stresses quietly.

“I did nothing,” Ontari says, though, and Entani knows she hears the pain and the guilt. “You almost died and I did nothing.”

“What do you talk of?” Entani says quietly, her arms beginning to rock Ontari against her gently. 

“When—” and a hiccup interrupts Ontari’s words briefly. “When we were captured. It was my fault,” she whispers, her voice coming out wet and teary. “I should have done more.”

“You did all you could,” Entani says quietly, memories of when they were captured drifting through her mind for a moment.

“It was not enough,” Ontari says simply. 

“I am still alive,” Entani counters though.

Ontari looks to her then, her eyes puffy and red, her cheeks wet, and her lip trembling slightly. 

“I love you,” Ontari says simply, and Entani smiles, shrugs and squeezes a little harder before she lets her arm fall from around her friend’s shoulders, the small smile she sees on the other woman’s lips enough to soothe her worries for now. 

“As I you,” Entani answers easily. “We will find answers, Ontari,” she continues. “We will rescue Clarke, and we will find the truth.”

Ontari nods, her eyes slowly focusing, and she watches as Ontari wipes a hand across her face, as she sniffles quietly and as she takes in a steady breath before standing, her hand held out for Entani to take.

And so Entani takes a hold, the help welcomed. They begin the short walk back to the camp, the snow crunching lightly underfoot, but Entani’s gaze is drawn to Roan’s tent where she sees Lexa and Anya duck out of it, and she senses Ontari’s gaze hone in on the Trikru women.

 

* * *

 

Lexa’s gaze follows Ontari as she is escorted out of the tent, Entani holding her close, whispered words falling from her lips. 

“I do not think I have ever seen an Azgeda warrior cry,” Anya says simply, her own gaze following both Azgeda women as they exit. 

“All she has known is being challenged,” Roan says simply. “She will need time,” and he shrugs.

“She does not have time,” Lexa says. “She will either need to join your warriors, or I will have her imprisoned.”

“She will see reason,” Roan says. 

“Very well,” and Lexa inclines her head once before turning her attention back to Jaha who remains kneeled on the floor, hands bound, eyes looking around him cautiously. 

“I’ve done my part,” Jaha begins cautiously. “Are you going to let me go?” 

“No,” Lexa says simply. “You will be punished in accordance to your people’s customs,” she continues, and she sees his eyes narrow and his lip begin to curl in frustration. “Be thankful you will not see Coalition punishment, you would not survive it,” she says simply.

“Take him,” Roan says to Echo, and Lexa watches as the assassin steps forward, their gazes not quite meeting as Echo moves forward and begins to march Jaha out of the tent. And Lexa doesn’t miss the way Anya’s eyes remain locked on the ground, her body tensing as Echo moves through the tent.

Roan watches for a moment longer, too, and Lexa knows he considers the things that have occurred between all that were present.

“We will rescue Clarke,” he says. 

“Your forces are ready?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says simply. “There are a few near Clarke at this moment. They will free her and meet us here,” and he pauses in thought for a moment. “I wish to avoid conflict for now,” and Roan looks pointedly at her. “Many do not know of my mother’s treachery, and I believe many would not stand by her side once it is known.”

“I wish to avoid unnecessary violence, too, Prince Roan,” Lexa says.

“Then we must move quickly once Clarke and my forces arrive here.” 

“I have warriors at the border who wait for our signal,” Lexa continues. “They will cross into Azgeda lands to reinforce us if we are attacked,” and Lexa pats the small radio tucked into her pocket. 

“That may cause open conflict,” Roan cautions. 

“It may,” Lexa agrees. “But you will be present. I believe that would be enough to give any Azgeda who give chase pause.”

 

* * *

 

Lexa breathes in deeply, the cold winds this far north leaving her uncomfortable and slightly aching in the cold. Anya steps besides her though, and she feels Anya’s tension linger as the woman eyes the few northern Azgeda that mill about quietly.

“Gustus knew you were going to Azgeda?” Anya asks quietly. 

“He did not,” Lexa answers, her eyes gazing out past the rocks and into the snow field that spreads out around the small camp. “Shana will have informed him by now, though,” she finishes.

“He will be angry,” Anya answers. “As Titus will be, too.”

“They know their place,” Lexa says simply. 

“They do,” but she knows Anya turns thoughtful, turns apprehensive, perhaps even angry, as she sees Echo walk past in the distance, the assassin keeping her distance, her eyes trained elsewhere. 

“I hate her for what she did,” Anya says, her voice coming detached, distant, and Lexa knows she talks of the assassin, of her role in Costia’s death. 

“All wrongs have been wiped clean,” but Lexa doesn’t quite think her words a truth as she sees Echo duck into Roan’s tent, an anger slowly simmering in the corners of her mind. 

“It does not mean I will forgive her,” Anya says simply. 

“Perhaps not,” and Lexa sighs forcefully, her mind turning away from thoughts of Costia and to Clarke, wherever she may be.

“Ontari cares for Clarke,” Anya says.

“She does,” Lexa agrees. 

“Is that not a problem?” Anya says cautiously. 

“I do not believe so,” Lexa shrugs. “Clarke cares for her, too. But not in that way,” Lexa finishes confidently.

“You believe that?” Anya asks, and Lexa knows she merely questions because she cares. 

“I do,” and Lexa nods to herself. 

But both women hear the approaching steps and so they turn to find Ontari marching towards them purposefully, and Lexa doesn’t miss the slight wetness that tinges her cheeks, or the rawness of eyes. Entani follows more mutedly though, and Lexa’s gaze shifts to the Azgeda healer as she pauses some distance away, her feet scuffing at a pebble underfoot.

Ontari stops in front fo them, her hands on her hips as she glares once at Anya before turning her attention to Lexa.

“I do not care that you are the Commander,” Ontari begins. “I do not care that you rule the Coalition and that you dictate what everyone must do.”  

Lexa’s eyebrow raises, and her head inclines, but she remains silent, Ontari’s words not yet finished.

“I do this to rescue Clarke, not for you, not for your Coalition, not because you are the Commander,” and Ontari pauses. “I do this to find answers and the truth. I do this for my own clan, I do it because it is best for my people.” 

“All that matters is that you do it,” Lexa says simply, her eyes steady as she holds Ontari’s gaze. 

Ontari meets her gaze with an ice stare though, and Lexa thinks Ontari considers her next words carefully.

“If Clarke dies,” and Ontari lifts her chin as she straightens her back, and as her shoulders square. “I will seek vengeance,” she finishes.

 

* * *

 

Trying to eat with a bloodied nose and an aching jaw is something Clarke finds an incredible nuisance. Her fingers shiver slightly as she spoons a sloppy mouthful of food past her lips and she tries not to spill the little food she has been granted. She feels her hair clinging to her, the little she wears hardly enough to keep the cold chill from freezing the water that clings to her body. 

Her door scrapes open though, the sound ringing out through the stone and as she looks up she finds Teril standing before her, his body silhouetted by a torch that burns too far for the heat to be any comfort.

“Stand,” he says.

Clarke stands, a wince falling from her lips as she feels her muscles protest the exertion, her joints aching and her body shivering in the cold. 

“Your friends are gone,” he says simply as he continues to look at her for a long moment. 

“Who?” Clarke asks, but she thinks he talks of Entani and Ontari.

“You know who,” and he eyes her cautiously, his gaze moving over the cuts and bruises that litter her body. “They escaped, never arrived where they were supposed to,” and he steps forward. “Raise your arms.”

Clarke looks at him for a moment before she raises her arms up, and she feels her ribs protest the stretch, her last beating leaving them sore and bruised.

“You are to be executed soon,” Teril says as he continues to look at her. “Turn,” he finishes. 

And Clarke turns awkwardly, the chain around her ankle clinking, and as she lets the words sink in, she finds herself not quite sure how to react. If only because she had expected the torture at Teril’s hands to be more brutal, more severe, filled with pain and discomfort. 

“Where’s Nia?” Clarke asks.

“She is returning to the capital,” Teril says easily. “Your betrayal has meant Kwin Nia must now reassure many at the capital that Azgeda is not a pawn to the Commander’s wishes,” and Teril pushes Clarke towards the wall, her palms pressed against it as he kicks her legs wide. “Do not move,” he says simply, and Clarke feels him kneel down behind her, and she feels his fingers begin to pull on the shackle around her ankle.

“Where are you taking me?” she asks. 

“You will find out soon,” he says simply. “Move,” he finishes as he steps back, hand already pulling Clarke from the wall and towards the door.

Clarke grunts out a quiet curse as her feet begin to pad across the rough stone, and her eyes trace the cells she passes, the light of torches burning in sconces all that illuminates her way. Teril stands close behind her, too, his hand firm as it grips her shoulder as he guides her down the dark corridor. She even hears the constant dripping of water as it slaps against the stone, the sound travelling through the stone and winding its way through her mind.

“I’m being executed,” Clarke says into the quiet.

“Yes,” Teril answers. 

“Why?” and Clarke tries to think past the constant ache in her bones and the constant thirst and hunger that claws at her mind.

“Kwin Nia has decided that you are no use to her alive,” and Teril directs her down a bend in the corridor. 

“Why are you even telling me all this?” Clarke questions.

“You will be dead soon,” and she thinks she hears his voice tighten slightly. 

And so Clarke takes his words for what they are and she lets herself fall quiet. But they come to another cell, the door similar to the one Clarke has stared at for the last few days. 

Teril opens the door to reveal another cell, this one, much like the door, looks identical to the one Clarke had just come from, and as Teril pushes her forward and as her eyes adjust to the dark she recognises the figure that remains seated on the ground, his face bloodied and his body covered in bruises, his own ankle shackled by a rusted chain.

“Torvun,” she whispers, her eyes tracing the swollen eye that peers up at her. 

Teril pushes her forward before he steps out of the cell, and Clarke turns to see him staring at them both for a long moment. 

“Perhaps seeing the pain you have caused others will make you reconsider your actions,” he says before the door closes.

Clarke waits until the doors close and until she is sure Teril’s presence has faded and then she rushes to Torvun’s side, his quiet not lost on her.

“Torvun,” she whispers as she kneels by his side, and she sees him look up at her painfully.

“Clarke,” he says, his voice coming out ragged, his breathing laboured and wheezed. 

“Are you ok?” she asks, her hands hovering over his body.

“I have been better,” he says as he sits up more fully, and Clarke can’t help but to eye the bruises that cover his own body, that litter his chest and arms and that colour his flesh a deep purple. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers as she steadies him, her hands holding his shoulders steady as he grunts and as he leans back against the wall, his legs crossed and his chest heaving slightly from the pain.

“It is not your fault,” Torvun answers simply.

“That’s not true,” Clarke counters as she eyes him for one more moment before she moves besides him, their shoulders brushing. “You’ve had it worse than me,” she says as she gestures up and down his body.

“I am not as important as you are,” Torvun says simply.

“You are to me,” Clarke counters. 

And she winces as Torvun coughs and as he brings a hand up to his mouth to wipe away a trail of blood that slips past his lips.

“At least we can share body warmth,” Clarke tries to joke, but as she eyes their shared state of undress she thinks it would do little to keep them both warm in the dungeons they find themselves in. “Apparently Entani and Ontari managed to get away,” she says quietly, her eyes tracing a bruise that spreads across Torvun’s cheek.

“That is good,” he says as he rubs a hand over his head.

“We’re going to be executed,” Clarke says awkwardly, and she sees Torvun raise an eyebrow.

“I am not surprised,” he says with a wry smile.

“I don’t know when,” and Clarke worries her lip, her thoughts turning to Nia’s servant and the conversation they had spoken before the guard had interrupted. And Clarke thinks of telling Torvun, of letting him know of the potential for the woman to help, to aid in their escape. But perhaps she won’t, if only because a false sense of hope would merely frustrate, would merely leave a bitter aftertaste.

“Do not be afraid,” Torvun says quietly, his eyes finding Clarke’s, and she thinks she sees a comfort, an acceptance, or perhaps a tiredness in his eyes. 

“Don’t give up yet, Torvun,” she says. “We still have time.”

 

* * *

 

Hanging upside down sucks, and as Clarke swings back and forth she at least feels thankful that the food she eats barely fills her stomach, barely gives her a chance to throw up what food she is allowed to eat. But as she listens to the creaking of the chain that holds her up, and as she feels the stretching in her ankles and her legs, she knows her body will protest the pain when she next wakes.

And so, for now, she tries to lose herself to the rhythm, to the beat that her body swings in the emptiness of whatever dungeon she finds herself in.

 

* * *

 

They take Torvun away at night, and she only catches his eyes once before the door slams shut with a loud clang before their steps fade and she no longer feels his presence and warmth by her side. 

Regret fills her though, and it’s not a regret for the actions she has taken, for the things she has done, for the situation she finds herself in. But she thinks it a regret that her actions have caused others pain, have caused Torvun to return in the morning with fresh cuts, fresh bruises, fresh pains and aches and wounds.

Maybe she regrets not taking advantage of the short amount of time she had spent without the chain clamped around her ankle, the weight now returned, now ever clinking with every movement she makes. 

But Clarke laughs a ragged thing as she hears the wind rustle through the dungeons, through the cell and against the stone. She laughs because it reminds her of the Ark, it reminds her of being a prisoner, of being locked in a cell, where the cold had been constant, where the food had been scarce and where comfort had been the imagined embrace of her father’s arms.

But for now Clarke closes her eyes, wraps her arms around her shivering body and she tries to lose herself to happier memories. At least until the sun rises.

 

* * *

 

Clarke thinks it must be the fifth day now, and as her eyes crack open to the sounds of the door being closed she finds Torvun sliding down the wall besides her, his breathing ragged once more and his face ever bloodied and bruised.

Clarke struggles to her knees and shuffles to him, her hands helping ease him down into a more comfortable position. She doesn’t miss the way he holds his right arm to his ribs carefully, and she doesn’t miss the deep purple bruise that already begins to spread.

“Let me look,” she croaks out, her voice rough from lack of water.

And so Torvun moves his arm slowly, and as she carefully brings her hands to his ribs she applies the slightest amount of pressure.

“Sorry,” Clarke whispers as Torvun grunts out. “I don’t think they’re broken though,” and she finishes running her fingers over his ribs before helping him ease his arm back down.

“Are you ok?” Torvun asks, his own voice coming out weary.

“They aren’t beating me,” Clarke whispers as she eyes a fresh cut on his cheek.

“They wish to break you,” he says simply. “I am being punished,” and he pauses mid shrug to curse his ribs and the cough that escapes his lips. “Death will come soon,” Torvun finishes morosely. 

“Hey,” and Clarke reaches out and squeezes his hand slightly. “We’ve got to stay positive,” and she glares at him softly. “No giving up yet.”

“I merely speak the truth, Clarke,” Torvun answers tiredly, his eyes already beginning to close.

“Hey,” and Clarke stares at Torvun worriedly, “Torvun,” and she shakes his shoulder just once. “Don’t fall asleep,” and she curses quietly as he merely grunts, his breathing already beginning to shallow and slow. “Torvun,” she hisses, and she shuffles closer on her knees as she kneels in front of him, her hands now gripping the sides of his face as she leans in closer. “Torvun.”

But his eyes open, and he stares at her for a moment. 

“I am not dying,” he says simply. 

“Oh,” and Clarke bites her lip as she looks away. “Sorry,” she says as she moves off him.

“I am going to sleep,” Torvun says with a pained lifting of his lip. “I did not sleep last night,” and he gestures to the fresh cut on his cheek as his eyes close once again. 

And so Clarke sighs heavily, but as Torvun begins to drift into a not so peaceful slumber, Clarke lets her eyes close, she lets her body lean into his and she lets the little warmth they share fight the cold that is ever constant around them.

 

* * *

 

Clarke’s eyes open to a searing heat held close to her face and to the burning stench of smoke that fills her lungs.

“Wake up,” a voice says, and as she recoils from the heat she eyes a guard who stands in front of her, others by his side, hands on the hilts of swords and knives as they eye both her and Torvun. Clarke takes a moment to look past the closest guards though, and she sees a number of others close by, their eyes guarded and their bodies tensed, and she even spots the assassin, Silence with them, his arms crossed and his fingers tapping against his forearm as he takes in Clarke and Torvun’s wounded and weary states. “Stand,” the first guard says, his eyes harsh in the flickering of the torch light.

And so Clarke struggles to her feet, her arms wrapped around herself for warmth and her limbs tired and aching. She eyes Torvun who struggles to his feet, too, and she goes to reach for him, to help him up, but the guard merely pushes her firmly so that she feels stone press into her back. But Torvun finds his feet and as he comes to stand besides her she feels his shoulders square and his back straighten as much as possible despite the bruising of his ribs.

“Turn,” the guard says simply and so Clarke and Torvun turn to face the wall, and as their eyes meet Clarke think she sees Torvun smile at her sadly, and she thinks she knows what will soon happen. “Hands,” the guard says once more.

And so Clarke holds her hands behind her back, and she feels the sharp burn of rope that ties around her wrists and that pulls at her skin. And she knows Torvun feels the same from the quiet curse he mutters as his arms are jostled and as strain is put on his ribs. 

And then Clarke feels the blindfold settle over her eyes and that steals her vision. 

And it’s dark, the cloth rough, the weight uncomfortable, the smell of it sweaty and musky.

Clarke feels strong hands grip her by the upper arm and turn her from the wall, and she knows she hears Torvun whisper quietly to her before his own voice is muffled by whatever blindfold or hood that is place over his head.

Clarke feels herself pulled from the wall, and she feels herself be marched out of the cell. Her ears pick up the sounds of guards and warriors who move with her, and she knows she hears the creaking of leathers, the rustling of furs and the clinking of metal against metal as they move through the cold dungeons.

“What’s happening?” Clarke ventures, but she thinks she already knows.

“Kwin Nia has no more use for you, Wanheda,” one guard says simply, and she thinks she hears a detachment in his voice.

“You are to be executed for your crimes,” the one leading her says, and she knows she hears the anger and betrayal that he must feel as it laces his voice.

She hears Torvun curse out quietly as he trips though, his body too pained and beaten to effectively walk forward blindly, and she hears guards grip him, and she hears him curse as his ribs protest the strain as she thinks some guards hold him up. But she keeps walking.

They pause for a moment and Clarke hears the sounds of a bolt sliding, she hears the sounds of a metal door swinging open and then she feels the harsh bite of the Azgeda winds as they buffet her exposed flesh, and she feels her skin pimple and prickle in the cold, and she feels the snow that stings into her bruises, that causes her to shiver, to shake and tremble.

“We can’t get some clothes can we?” Clarke asks, and perhaps in this moment she can’t help but to let a rebellious streak take hold, take root, if only because she doesn’t quite wish to be executed half naked in the freezing snow.

But Clarke hears a whispered conversation take place, and she thinks she hears an anger in some voices, caution in others. But she hears someone step away, she hears their feet fade into the distance and so she waits. It doesn’t take long, but Clarke hears the returning crunch of boots against snow and then she feels a person return and step in front of her. 

Clarke can’t help but to yelp slightly as she feels hands lift one of her legs before forcing it into warm furs, and then she feels the hands grip her other leg before lifting them into the other leg of what she assumes to be pants. 

And it’s awkward, whoever it is in front of her struggles to pull her pants up given her predicament, and she is sure she hears Torvun cursing out whoever does the same for him. And Clarke is sure she blushes as she feels hands awkwardly try to settle the pants around her waist, and as fingers try to awkwardly button her fly.

“Sorry, Wanheda,” a voice whispers to her before the presence steps back only for warm furs to be draped over her shoulders. 

But Clarke nods once, at least now thankful that her last moments won’t be quite so cold.

And so Clarke feels hands guide her forward once more and she feels the cold crunch of snow underfoot but as she continues to walk blindly forward she thinks she feels the snow begin to give way to iced rock, and she knows she hears the sounds of the wind as it whistles against the sharp of the rocks that circle the small village, and she can’t help but to laugh quietly as she realises that her death won’t even be seen by many, won’t even be held in the village square. She realises that her death will be small, will hardly cause a ripple, will hardly be noticed for days, for weeks even, perhaps months. And she knows that is what Nia wants, for her death to go unnoticed for as long as possible, for as long as Nia needs to address whatever plans she has concocted, has set in motion to wage war against the coalition. 

Clarke feels the snow give way completely though, she feels it slip and harden underfoot and she knows that she now must be hidden from view of the village, the rocks that she is sure spring up around her enough to hide whatever happens from view. 

Her thoughts turn to her friends though, she thinks of Ontari, ever stubborn, ever loyal and brash and quick to violence, she thinks of how she had first met her, of how they had grown close over the years, of how they had fought side by side. And she thinks of Entani, the healer who had been the first to show her kindness, to not meet her foreignness with distain and distrust. She thinks of the Skaikru, of Wells, of conversations she had always expected to still have, to ask for forgiveness and to settle the score. And she thinks of her mother, she wonders if she even knows her daughter is about to be executed, she wonders if she even knows she has been captured, has been missing for days now.

And she thinks of her time in Polis, of the things she has experienced, and she thinks of Lexa. And it’s odd. She knows they haven’t quite discussed what exists between them, what it could grow into, what it may be. But she thinks of Lexa’s smile, of her infuriating smirk and the secrets she keeps and the way she merely raises her chin in defiance when she knows she has caused frustration and anger and annoyance. 

And Clarke stumbles. Her foot drags on the icy ground beneath her, and she curses the pain in her knees from hours spent kneeling on the stone, she curses how her hands are tied behind her back, unable to break her fall should she find her footing slip. But Clarke laughs, too, she laughs because she thinks this so very familiar, she thinks the cold the same, she thinks her shackled hands the same, and she thinks her actions and her punishment and her fate the same. For surely, it must be ironic that she now finds herself about to be executed for doing what she thinks was best for her people. For disagreeing with the leadership of her people and the decisions those in power make.

But she knows she doesn’t quite care for the next few moments that are soon to pass.

She feels Torvun’s body press against hers briefly though, she feels him stumble and trip and she hears him curse out and groan as his ribs protest the movements.

And it’s only another few short steps, a few simple paces, and then strong hands grip her shoulders as a foot trips her and sends her to her knees. She feels hands tug at her blindfold then, and her eyes blink in the harsh light of the morning light.

And Clarke thinks she only just now starts to feel the worry begin to settle in once more, she thinks she only now begins to feel the fear and the pumping of her heart and the clamminess of her fingers. 

And she knows she hates this.

“It has been an honour to serve you, Clarke.” 

And her head turns to face Torvun, and she finds him smiling at her kindly, his eyes already beginning to close as acceptance settles over his bloodied face as he rests his cheek against the cutting block laid out in front of them. 


	23. Chapter 23

Clarke feels the harsh bite of the stone as it digs into her knees, and she feels the fear beginning to prickle in the back of her mind. She feels hands push her forward though, and she feels herself bend at the waist as she rests her own neck on the cutting block before her. It’s an odd sense of detachment that fills her in this moment though. She’s not so sure whether her mind accepts what happens, what is about to happen. And perhaps she had thought, had hoped that the servant would have come to her aid, or perhaps even Ontari and Entani, maybe even Roan and Lexa. But as the rough wood digs into her throat and as her breathing continues to quicken, she thinks her time is up.

“Goodbye, Torvun,” she whispers, and she feels his foot reach for her own foot awkwardly, the little contact between them enough to give her mind a small comfort for the last few moments of her life.

She sees warriors move around her through the corners of her eye, and she sees one step forward, and she knows she hears the drawing of a sword, the blade singing in the cool air as the man prepares to strike. Clarke watches as his feet stop just short of her, and she can’t help but to grimace at the realisation that she will be first, that her head will be removed. And she wonders what it must be like, she wonders if it will hurt, she wonders if she will remain conscious long enough after her head is removed to see her own headless body as it twitches and spasms on the ground, she wonders if she will see Torvun’s face as it grimaces, as it is splashed with the last of her blood. And maybe she hopes it will be instantaneous, that pain won’t even register, won’t even begin to appear before her mind blanks and her thoughts die and her existence ceases.

Clarke hears the creaking of leather, and she knows the man readies to strike, she sees his shadow lift its arms, sword held in hand, and she closes her eyes, she squeezes them tightly and she waits. 

The pause only lasts a moment, only long enough for her to feel her pulse pump and beat frantically. And then she hears the blade sing. She hears it whistle through the air, she hears it slam into the ground and she feels the reverberations as it echoes and vibrates through the cutting block.

But Clarke hears the gasp, she hears the thump of something hitting flesh and she hears the gurgle of blood as it splutters past lips. And Clarke’s eyes open in time to see the man fall to the ground, his sword embedded in the corner of the cutting block, the blade just a breadth from her cheek.

But Clarke’s eyes stare at the fletching that protrudes from the man’s chest, the arrow still quivering as he lies dying on the ground.

And then all hell breaks loose.

Clarke looks up as Nia’s servant leaps from over a rock, and Clarke watches as her body twists in the air, as she draws another arrow and as she fires into another Azgeda warrior who begins moving, halfway drawing a sword. And the woman hits the ground with a roll, and Clarke watches as she comes to a running stand, already firing a third arrow at yet another Azgeda warrior who begins moving to intercept her. 

Silence moves, too, and Clarke watches as the man disarms another Azgeda who shouts out in shock and surprise before Silence punches him across the face hard enough for the man’s eyes to roll back before he slumps over unconscious. Two other Azgeda move with Silence, and Clarke watches as one disarms a woman, her eyes wide and her motion paused for long enough for the man to kick her legs out from under her and wrap an arm around her throat. The third rushes the last of the stunned Azgeda and Clarke watches as he rips a sword from stunned hands before he slashes at a thigh causing the warrior to drop to the ground with a grunt of pain before the handle of a knife is slammed against the side of a head, silencing the warrior for the moment.

And then it quiets. The woman draws her bow and eyes the three Azgeda carefully, and as Silence stands Clarke hears the creak of the bowstring as she pulls it back further, the arrow aimed squarely at Silence.

“Don’t move,” she hisses, and Clarke sees her begin to back up, her feet stepping back carefully as she puts distance between her and the three Azgeda.

“Put the weapon down,” Silence says evenly, his eyes moving to Clarke and Torvun who remain kneeled as they watch the exchange.

Clarke rises though, and she sees the woman tense for just a moment at the sound before relaxing.

“You’re working for Prince Roan?” Clarke asks cautiously as she eyes Silence.

“Yes,” he says simply. “We must leave.”

And Clarke watches as the woman pauses for just another short second as she contemplates whatever decisions must race through her mind before she lowers her bow and she steps around Clarke. And Clarke feels her slash at the ropes around her wrists, and she feels the relief as the pressure lessens and as her hands come free, the skin raw and irritated. 

“What’s your name?” Clarke asks as the woman moves to Torvun, a small knife in her hands already cutting through his bonds.

“Costia,” the woman says as their eyes meet.

 

* * *

 

Ontari’s gaze follows the flickering of the light as it bounces off the edge of her sword, and as she runs the whetstone over it she lets the sounds it rings soothe her mind and bleed into a rhythm she finds comforting and familiar.

Her thoughts turn to Kwin Nia though, and she tries to juggle with what she has been told, the things Nia has done, and she can’t help but feel it as a lie, as something concocted and spoken of merely to turn those loyal to the clan. But it makes sense. Doesn’t it? She thinks of Entani’s wounds, of how they had been sent to hunt the Mountain Men, of how they had been ambushed, the mine placed exactly in the path of where they were coming from. And it makes her teeth grind, it makes her thoughts begin to writhe and bubble. She thinks of her inaction after being captured, of how she had been dragged before Clarke, of how the knife had been held to her throat and how she had accepted that her time had come, that her fight was over. She thinks of how Entani had been wounded, of how Skaikru healers were the only ones able to save her. 

And Ontari feels the rage build, she feels those thoughts that linger in the back of her mind come roaring into existence and she curses. Her finger slips and she feels the edge of her sword slice into her palm, and she watches as the blood smears the blade, as it drips down its length.

She places her sword down tenderly, the metal shining in the dark of the tent, and she holds her hand close as she begins to sort through Entani’s healer pack, her fingers already groping for the needle and thread. Ontari glances once over her shoulder to find Entani still fast asleep, a leg hanging over the side of the small bed they share and her braids unwound, hair unruly in sleep. 

But Ontari feels the thread brush her fingers and so she snares it and brings it up to the slight light that exists. And then Ontari begins to pull the needle through her flesh, her eyes tracing the clean cut, and she can’t help but to wince slightly at the sting and at the awkwardness of her motions as she tries to copy the movements she has seen Clarke and Entani both make so many times before. 

She could ask for help though, she thinks Entani wouldn’t mind being woken, she thinks the healer would merely joke, merely tease her inability, her lack of skills despite the scars that litter her flesh, but as she lets Entani’s deep breathing fill the tent she knows she wishes not for Entani’s sleep to be disturbed.

And so Ontari scowls and frowns and grimaces as she continues to awkwardly pull the thread through the edges of the wound. 

It doesn’t take her long to finish suturing her wound, and as she eyes the finished stitching she thinks it an ok attempt, but she knows Entani will remove her stitching when they wake, she knows Entani will redo them soon.

Ontari stands then, wipes the blood from her palm with a bandage before she takes a step to the bed, fingers already tugging at her clothes, already beginning to undress for the last few hours of night before the sun rises. But a thought comes to her, an idea, a want and a desire and a wish to sort things out. To get answers while she can. 

And so Ontari pauses, she stops and she turns, her fingers already tugging her clothes back on as she slips out of the small tent.

It’s still dark outside, and as she breathes in she smiles grimly, her eyes quickly finding a lone sentry that perches quietly in the rocks, their gaze directed out and into the snowfields that surround them. Fire’s don’t quite burn at this time either, merely rocks that are heated and glow from the fires that had been lit during the day, the night too dangerous to let fires flicker in the dark for the few that remain in this isolated place.

Ontari’s eyes snap to the very few Trikru that she had found to be with them, their tents small, simple, easy to unpack, easy to transport. And so she begins to walk forwards. She tugs her furs around her shoulders as the wind picks up, as it howls and screams over the rocks and breathes through her unbraided hair. But Ontari enjoys it, she has missed the cold, the chill that coats her lungs in a freshness that chills and soothes her body. 

She comes to a pause outside the largest tent, and she can’t help but to scoff slightly at its size, the Commander still always needing to have the largest tent no matter the circumstance. 

“I wish to see the Commander,” Ontari says simply as Anya steps closer to her, the taller woman gazing down at her slightly as she runs her eyes over the knife strapped to Ontari’s hip.

“Wait,” is all Anya says before she ducks into the tent.

It only lasts a moment, and as Anya ducks back out, Ontari thinks the Commander must have already been awake, or perhaps must not have even slept, but as Anya waves her in, Ontari can’t quite put enough effort into caring about the woman’s wellbeing.

Her eyes gaze around the tent, and she eyes the small table that sits in the centre, the sheer curtain that hides the Commander’s sleeping space, and the weapons and armour the lie strewn across the table top. Ontari feels Anya step in behind her though, and she knows the woman ready to strike, ready to attack and to defend should she give reason to do so.

But Ontari’s eyes snap to the Commander who stands by the table, her eyes meeting Ontari’s, her clothes more subtle, the red sash gone, the braids different, no war paint dripping from her eyes and slashing down her cheeks.

“You wished to speak?” the Commander says evenly, her eyes holding Ontari’s gaze steadily.

“I do,” Ontari answers as her hand falls to her hip out of habit, and she hears Anya growl out a warning, and she sees the Commander’s eyes follow her hand as she lets it fall to her side.

“Clarke,” Ontari begins as she starts to move further into the tent, her eyes moving to the weapons on the table, and she finds herself taking note of the blades she sees, of the dagger and the throwing knife and the two swords, even the studded gloves.

“What of Wanheda?” the Commander intones lowly.

“I know you bed her,” Ontari says simply. 

The Commander’s head tilts to the side slightly, and Ontari thinks she senses thoughts that flash through the woman’s mind, that take up whatever small space must linger within her head. But she can’t quite put her finger on whether the thoughts are bad, are good, or merely just observation of her words. 

“What will you do with this information?” the Commander questions.

“Nothing,” Ontari says. “I do not see what she finds attractive,” Ontari finishes, her lip lifting slightly as she sees the Commander’s eyebrow raise and as she hears Anya curse her name quietly.

“You came merely to insult?” the Commander questions.

“No,” Ontari shrugs, and she takes a steadying breath, her mind trying to understand what has happened, what is happening, and what she thinks will happen. “I care for Clarke,” and Ontari watches as she sees the Commander take her words in, as the woman studies her posture and her stance. “You care for her, too,” Ontari pushes. 

“And you think this, why?” the Commander says, her eyes turning detached, her voice coming out cold, empty, not unlike the times she has seen Nia in times of anger or displeasure.

“You would not be here personally if you did not care for her,” Ontari begins. “And you do not have proof of what you accuse Kwin Nia of,” Ontari continues.

And the Commander’s eyebrow raises slightly at that.

“And you think I have no proof?”

“I do,” Ontari says. “If you had proof of Kwin Nia’s treachery then you would not need to sneak into Azgeda lands disguised as someone other than the Commander,” and Ontari gestures to the clothes the woman wears. “Where are your armies? Where are Trishanakru? Delfikru? Podakru?”

“And your point is?” the Commander intones lowly.

“We do things the Azgeda way,” Ontari says, and she readies the gamble, the ultimatum, the threat she is about to voice. “I will not allow you to destroy Azgeda,” Ontari continues. “I will not allow an outsider to dictate how Azgeda deals with this,” and she gestures around her. 

“And how will you stop me?” the Commander asks, her head tilting slightly. “How will you enforce your will? Your wishes? Your desires?” and the Commander begins to stalk forward carefully, her eyes iron, her body tensed, poised and ready to strike, to lash out, to subdue and overwhelm.

“You will have no say in how Azgeda confronts Kwin Nia,” Ontari says as she steps forward herself, and she feels the adrenaline begin to flow through her veins, she feels her anger, her hurt and betrayal begin to swell once more. 

Both women come to a stop then, and Ontari feels the quiet breaths that ghost her face as the Commander eyes her, as the Commander takes in her face. But Ontari curses silently as she realises the woman stands just slightly taller than her, just enough that she can tell the Commander looks down at her.

“You are lucky, Ontari,” the Commander says quietly. “If you were anyone other than a friend of Clarke’s I would not allow this to go unpunished.”

“I do not care,” Ontari snaps quietly. 

“I know you do not care,” the Commander answers and then she pauses, her eyes moving over Ontari’s face. But Ontari sees her smirk slightly, she sees the woman’s lips twitch and her cheek move just a little. “Perhaps you should have a proper healer see to your wounds,” the Commander finishes as her eyes flick down to the poor stitching in her palm before her head inclines to the tent’s exit. “You may leave.”

And so Ontari clenches her hand quickly, scowl firmly in place as she glares fiercely at the Commander for one long moment before she turns and ducks out of the tent.

 

* * *

 

“She is stubborn,” Anya says, her eyes trailing after the Azgeda warrior who ducks out of the tent.

“She is,” Lexa says as she relaxes a little now that Ontari fades from her presence. 

“I do not think it is wise to allow her to show such disrespect,” Anya says as she moves deeper into the room. 

“She is a friend of Clarke’s,” Lexa says simply, “I will allow it,” and Anya’s eyebrow raises. “To an extent,” Lexa adds with a quiet smile.

“If she continues to threaten though?” Anya questions.

“Roan will keep her in line,” Lexa answers. “I do not think Ontari means any harm,” and she shrugs as her eyes fall to the weapons on the table and her finger begins to brush against the edge of one of her swords, the blade sharp and shining in the candle light that flickers occasionally. 

“You do not think her a threat?” 

“She is not sure how to react,” and Lexa meets Anya’s gaze once more. “She is afraid. She is hurt. She is lost,” and Lexa gestures between them both. “We both know people react differently when things are not what they seem,” and Lexa watches as Anya looks away, as her jaw clenches slightly.

“Yes,” Anya says after a moment.

“Do you wish to talk?” Lexa asks cautiously though, and she knows this a foreign concept for both women, but as she sees Anya meet her gaze she can’t help but to smile slightly at the memories of when Anya had been her first, when she had been forced to scale trees blindfolded, had been forced to set up their shared tent by herself. 

“I do not wish to discussed anything,” Anya says, and Lexa inclines her head for she knows Anya’s words hold no malice, hold no bite, only pride, and a reluctance to seem any less than the glaring Trikru warrior many think her to be. “Gustus will be angry when we return,” Anya says to change the topic, her chin jerking to the south, to where Polis and Trikru borders lie.

“He will,” Lexa sighs as she moves to where a beaker sits on the edge of the table. “So too will Titus,” and she holds up a mug in question and she sees Anya nod her head once.

“It was necessary,” and Anya offers a word of thanks as she takes the mug from her.

“It was,” Lexa agrees with a nod.

 

* * *

 

Clarke stares for a long moment, and she is sure her face remains confused and blank and stupid as the woman holds her gaze.

“Costia?” Clarke asks, and as the name leaves her lips she feels the memories come crashing back, memories of when Lexa had spoken of a former love, of someone stolen by Nia, whose head had been returned without a body.

“I am who you think I am,” Costia says, her eyes darting once to Torvun who eyes the other Azgeda who, for the moment, seem to be loyal to Roan.

“How?” Clarke whispers, her eyes trailing over the scar etched into her cheek, that dips into her lip.

“I will explain later, but for now we must go,” Costia says quickly, her eyes scanning in the direction of the village.

“Lexa thinks you’re dead,” Clarke says, and she feels her heart beat rapidly, she feels her fingers tremble at the revelation. 

“I know,” and Costia looks away for a moment. “Many have thought me dead for years,” she says simply. “But I will hel—”

“We must leave now,” Silence hisses as he steps forward, his eyes flashing a warning. 

 

* * *

 

Clarke’s eyes scan the village for just a moment, and she is sure at any second an alarm will sound, a warning, a shout of anger, of surprise, anything, will ring out. She curses the fact that their escape now relies on stealing horses, on sneaking through the village and taking six horses before anyone notices the absence of the other Azgeda warriors who have been left bound and wounded in the rocks. And Clarke can’t help but feel anguish at the fact that they suffer, not because they are evil, but only because they remain loyal to a Kwin who has lied, has twisted truths, and has poisoned their minds to the truth of what has happened. But for now Clarke knows she must escape. And so she pushes the worries from her mind and she tries to settle the raging of her heart.

“Let me go,” Costia says quietly. “Many do not notice my movements anymore,” she continues, her eyes darting left and right. “I can take perhaps three horses. We may have to share,” she finishes as she meets Clarke’s gaze. 

Clarke worries her lip for a moment, but as she considers the mad dash they would have to brave across the open land, she thinks Costia’s suggestion the only solution, the only option that wouldn’t end in their swift recapture and death.

“Ok,” Clarke says quietly. 

And so Costia flashes her a bright smile before shrugging off her bow and handing it and the arrows to her. She slips down the side of the snow mound then before she stands and wipes herself off as she begins jogging towards the village easily. 

“She is supposed to be dead?” Torvun asks quietly from besides her, his gaze following the woman as she slows her steps and passes through the main gates of the village.

“She is supposed to be,” Clarke answers as she worries her lip, eyes just once glancing to Silence he remains on his stomach as he looks down into the village.

“Kwin Nia can be cruel,” he says simply as he senses her eyes on him. “I would not be surprised if she has a ploy to send Lexa your head,” he shrugs. 

“Oh,” and Clarke recalls how Teril had sliced off a strand of her hair, of what Nia had said, and Clarke feels the shiver run through her, and she wonders if someone has already lost their life for Nia’s games.

“Who is she?” Torvun asks quietly.

“Someone important,” Clarke answers as she watches Costia step into the stables.

Silence snorts at her words though, and she feels him glance once at her. 

“She was very important,” he says. “As are you,” and he raises an eyebrow evenly, and Clarke thinks by the way he holds her gaze that he knows of her and Lexa.

“Can she be trusted?” Torvun asks as he winces slightly, the hard packed snow underneath his body not so easy on his ribs. 

“Yes,” Silence says. “She has no love for Kwin Nia.”

 

* * *

 

Costia pauses at the entrance to the stables, and her eyes quickly count the horses present, and she breathes out a sigh of relief as she finds seven there, more than enough. She moves quickly, her eyes scanning the saddles that hang from the wall, and she feels her fingers tremble now, she feels her heart begin to beat faster. It’s been so long, so many years, but as she pulls the first saddle from the wall she thinks a smile begins to spread, she thinks she feels the first real sense of hope, of daring. 

“What are you doing?” 

And she freezes, she feels her heart freeze and her body tense. She turns carefully and holds up the saddle in her hands before gesturing to the nearest horse. Teril watches her carefully and she sees him take the time to consider whatever thoughts drift through his mind, whatever accusations he could make, threats of punishment he could carry out.

“You see to the horses?” he asks as his arms cross and his head tilts. 

Costia nods, her eyes falling to a hammer that lies not far from her hand.

“How did the execution go?” he asks, his head jerking to the direction of where Clarke had been held.

But Costia shrugs just once.

“You don’t know?” Teril says, his lip curling slightly. “I saw you sneak off,” and he steps forward. “If you wish to lie then you should not be caught trying to escape, trying to free them,” and Costia backs up slightly, the saddle in her arms feeling heavy, feeling cumbersome in her grasp. Teril pauses in his approach though, his eyes, she thinks, keeping a quiet mirth just slightly hidden.

Costia shakes her head forcefully though, and she widens her gaze, tries to make herself seem as pathetic as she can, she even lets her arms tremble, lets the saddle begin to lower to the strain she lets show.

“Take this,” Teril says though, and Costia pauses, she thinks her lips part and her eyes widen as she eyes the knife Teril hands her by the blade. “Escaping would require you to attack me,” he says simply.

And perhaps she knows from past experience, from the times she has tried to escape before, that all it takes for an opening to turn into a victory is to act, is to make a decision and accept the consequences. 

And so Costia lunges. She throws the saddle at Teril and she crashes against him. She hears Teril grunt out and she grasps the blade and snatches it from his outstretched hand before jabbing it towards his chest. 

But Teril curses out quietly, shifts his body, turns his chest, and she watches as the blade sinks into his shoulder. But she doesn’t stop, doesn’t even consider stopping. Costia kicks out harshly, and she knows she connects with his groin as Teril gasps out in pain before she smashes her elbow against his cheek, and she watches as he stumbles, as he topples and as he slips to the ground. 

Costia stares at him for only a moment before his eyes raises and he meets her gaze with his own dazed one. And then she kicks him in the head, and she watches as his eyes roll back and as his body goes limp.

Costia glances up then, and she waits, she pauses for the alarm that must be coming. She pauses for the shouts and the alarm bells. But all she hears is the neighing of the horses and so she curses, she breathes in deeply and she rushes to ready the horses, Teril’s actions to be considered at a later time.

 

* * *

 

Clarke lets out a sigh of relief as she sees Costia walk out of the stables, four horses in tow. Costia keeps her head down, and Clarke feels her blood begin to beat, begin to flow rapidly as anticipation builds, as failure and fear begin to bleed into her mind. But Costia takes another step, and Clarke watches as a horse jerks its head happily, and Costia takes another step, and Clarke watches as the woman glances back into the stables, but a horse merely snorts once, tosses a head and settles easily. And Clarke watches as Costia breathes in deeply, as the woman closes her eyes and begins to walk just a little faster, just a little more purposefully as she nears the gates to the village.

And then she passes through. Clarke feels her fingers begin to itch, and she feels the bow pressing against her palm, her eyes scanning behind Costia as she continues to walk their way, and Clarke thinks of the things that may go wrong in this instant, in this moment, in the time it takes for Costia to cover the distance, to meet them at the base of the snow mound.

But Costia covers the distance easily, and she feels Torvun begin to rise, begin to prepare for the dash to meet the horses.

“Hotun and Kenma will take two,” Silence whispers, the other two warriors nodding as Clarke looks their way. “They will travel in different directions, confuse any who try to give chase. We will share the last two,” he finishes with a nod.

“Thanks for making the decision for us,” Clarke says as her eyes roll.

“Be thankful,” Silence mutters. “I do not enjoy being hunted, and I do not wish to share what could be my last moments with someone ungrateful.”

“Nice to know you care,” Clarke hisses back as she begins to rise, too.

“We go now,” Silence says as he dashes forward, and so Clarke races after him, Torvun merely muttering out a curse as his ribs protest the strain.

They reach Costia quickly, and she looks over shoulder and back at the stables before meeting Clarke’s worried gaze.

“Everything ok?” Clarke asks as she pulls herself onto the first horse’s back.

“Yes,” Costia says as she takes Clarke’s offered hand before swinging up behind her. 

“Where are we going?” Clarke asks Silence, and she turns to see Torvun settling on the horse behind the assassin, frown in place as Silence shrugs. 

“Away from here,” the man says before nodding to Hotun and Kenma who return his nod with their own before they urge their horses in opposite directions.

“Helpful,” Clarke mutters. “Lead the way,” and she clicks once, the horse she rides already falling into step behind Silence who turns his horse out and into the snowfields, the horse already reaching a gallop.

 

* * *

 

The Azgeda winds blow her hair from her face, and as she stares out into the distance she can’t help but feel the cold that bites into her limbs, that prickles her skin and chills her bones. And she can’t quite fathom why Clarke enjoys the cold, but perhaps it must simply take time. 

And so Lexa pulls the furs closer around her, and she feels Anya shiver next to her, too.

“I do not ever wish to return to Azgeda during their winter,” the woman says.

“It has only just begun,” Lexa counters, her eyebrow raising slightly.

“Yet it is still wretched,” Anya mutters. 

“Clarke likes it,” Lexa says, and she tries to pull her mind from the worries of what may be happening to her even at this moment.

“Clarke is strange,” Anya says, and Lexa thinks the woman’s eyes must roll.

“Clarke is—”

“Do not say special,” Anya mutters.

“The Commander can say what she wishes,” Lexa counters quietly. 

Anya snorts then, and Lexa feels the subtle smile that pulls at her lips.

“Perhaps,” and Anya turns from the open view to face her. “But as your former fir—”

A horn echoes out over the lands and Anya’s head swivels to the sound, and Lexa’s hand falls to the sword strapped to her hip as she follows the sound. In the distance she thinks she sees two horses galloping over the snowfield, and Lexa sees a warrior on watch rise from the rocks and draw a bow as another horn echoes out over the lands. Commotion breaks through the small camp, and Lexa turns to see Roan racing out of his tent, his furs wrapped around him as he stares off into the distance and at the horses that approach.

A warrior races past them, but Anya reaches out and grips the woman by the furs and pulls her to a stop.

“Who approaches?” Anya says as she jerks her chin towards the newcomers.

“Wanheda,” the Azgeda warrior says as she shrugs off Anya’s grasp with a grunt of annoyance before she continues racing towards where the horses continue to make their approach.

Lexa feels her lips pull up slightly though, and she knows Anya notices from the way the woman scoffs before they begin walking down the small incline and to where other Azgeda warriors begin to gather.

It only takes them a moment longer, and as they approach, Lexa sees Ontari and Entani present, both women pushing through the warriors until they stand at the forefront, and Lexa knows she senses the relief and the happiness that must fill both women as Clarke’s blonde hair begins to fully come into view as she slows her horse and as she raises a hand in welcome.

And Lexa’s eyes take her in then, and she sees signs of suffering, a bruise colouring her cheek, and she thinks Clarke moves stiffly, her limbs weighted from the pain and the aches of whatever has  happened, but Lexa knows her own relief floods her as her eyes meet Clarke’s from across the warriors that gather.

Lexa sees an Azgeda warrior pull up the second horse, his face unmarked, and she sees Torvun slide off it too, and then her gaze turns back to Clarke who dismounts awkwardly, her body stiff, and then the blonde turns to help another person off, her face tucked into furs as the winds pick up and as they blow the unruly curls of her hair freely.

Lexa doesn’t quite realise her feet have taken her forward, that her hands have pushed those around her out of the way, and that her body now stands besides Ontari who glares at her once. But Lexa feels her fingers want to reach out, want to snare Clarke and hold her, if only to embrace something she thinks not quite certain yet, if only to reaffirm a commitment, the spectre of Nia’s cunning now more clear, now more warning than it has been for years. 

“Clarke,” she begins, but Clarke holds a hand up, and Lexa sees her worry a lip for a brief second.

“There’s someone you should meet,” Clarke says, and Lexa feels her eyes narrow, she feels her senses begin to tingle, and she feels her anger and frustration and fear and loathing come roaring to the forefront of her mind as Clarke steps aside.

“Hello, Lexa.”

_Costia._


	24. Chapter 24

“Clarke,” Lexa says, and Clarke smiles for only a moment as their eyes meet.

But Clarke knows an apprehension already begins to build in her mind as thoughts turn to what will happen in the moments to come. And so she holds up a hand, and she thinks she feels her fingers tremble slightly.

“There’s someone you should meet,” Clarke finds herself saying, and she feels Costia settle awkwardly behind her for a moment. 

And so she steps aside.

And Clarke thinks she sees the moment Lexa breaks, she knows she sees the cracking of the facade that seems ever present, and Clarke knows she sees the pain and denial that bleeds into green eyes.

“Hello, Lexa,” Costia says quietly, and Clarke sees her take a step forward, only for Lexa to step back, only for her to keep a distance between them. 

Clarke even hears Anya gasp, she hears Anya curse and she sees the woman’s eyes go wide, she sees her lips slacken. Her gaze turns back to Lexa and she sees the green eyes slam shut, and Clarke watches as her fists clench and she sees her head begin to shake before she snaps around on her heels and pushes through the Azgeda warriors as she begins moving back to her tent. Anya pauses for only a moment as she looks from Costia to Lexa and back before her eyes settle on Costia.

“Costia?” Anya whispers, her eyes still wide. 

“It is me,” Costia says, and Clarke sees Costia stare after Lexa’s body as it disappears into her tent.

“How?” Anya says, disbelief and shock still clearly etched across her face.

“It is a long story,” Costia says as she looks away, her eyes closing for a moment and Clarke thinks memories bust be surfacing that leave a bitter pain within her mind.

“Costia,” Anya whispers though, and Clarke sees the woman’s eyes trail over the scar on her cheek, Clarke sees her gaze trace the curls through her hair, the single braid that keeps them back and the rough furs that cover her body. “Costia,” Anya whispers once more as her hand begins to reach out tentatively, unsure, and Clarke knows she sees the trembling of fingers.

“It is me,” Costia repeats awkwardly.

And so Anya lunges forward and grasps Costia in a tight embrace, and Clarke thinks she hears quiet words muttered between them both, and she knows she sees tears begin to slip from Anya’s eyes. 

And Clarke thinks herself intruding on the moment and so she turns, she looks away, and she thinks she will have to reth—

Ontari comes crashing into her fiercely, arms hugging her with a desperation that Clarke feels stealing her breath.

“Clarke,” Ontari whispers into her ear, and Clarke hears the muffled sounds of sobs as Ontari’s arms begin to shake.

“I’m ok,” Clarke smiles as she squeezes her own arms around Ontari, and she smiles as she sees Entani help Torvun forward, both hobbling together in their injured states.

“We were worried,”Entani says simply as she comes to a stand besides Clarke, but she looks away in thought, and Clarke thinks she senses the unspoken words that Entani doesn’t wish to voice. Not yet anyway.

“It’s true,” Clarke preempts as she steps back from Ontari. “All of it,” and she glances to Torvun to see him nodding, his arm still held close to his ribs. 

“Why, Clarke?” Ontari whispers though.

“I didn’t want to get you in trouble,” she answers simply. Truthfully.

“Why did you not tell us? Why did you not share this?” Ontari questions.

“It’s complicated,” and Clarke looks away for a moment, and she tries to think of a simple explanation for her actions, something that would explain her treason, her refusal to do Nia’s bidding. “She would have thrown Azgeda into chaos,” Clarke says simply. “She was willing to work with the Mountain Men on the off chance that she could beat all the other clans in conflict,” and Ontari’s jaw clenches tightly, her gaze moving from Entani, to Torvun and then scanning over the bruises and cuts visible across Clarke’s face. “I only did what I thought was best for Azgeda,” Clarke continues quietly. “I’ll explain everything later,” and she reaches forward and squeezes Ontari’s arm. “I promise.”

And so Ontari holds her gaze for a long moment as Clarke’s words begin to settle within her mind, and as Clarke watches her, she thinks that Ontari will need time to process, time to consider, to come to her own conclusions. But as Ontari’s lips begin to smile once more, Clarke thinks that for now, Ontari is merely happy that her friends are safe.

“I am happy you are well,” Ontari finishes.

 

* * *

 

“Hello, Lexa.”

And Lexa stares. She stares and she feels her heart slam against her ribs, she feels her breath freeze and her lungs turn to stone and her mind begin to waver, begin to crumble and tear. Her eyes close and she squeezes them tight, she grits her teeth and digs her nails into her palms for a long, long, moment. But she hears Anya’s gasp, she hears the intake of breath, she feels the woman tense and she feels the shock that rolls off her. 

And if only because Anya reacts, if only because Clarke had looked at her cautiously, had held up a hand in warning, Lexa thinks her eyes not deceiving, not lying, not showing her a falsehood.

Lexa’s eyes open cautiously, and she feels her lips slacken and her pulse scream through her veins. Costia stands before her, and Lexa can’t help but stare at the scar that tears down her cheek, she can’t help but to grimace as it contorts her lip slightly. And she knows she sees the signs of pain that covers Costia’s skin, scars, blemishes and stories that speak of pain and anguish. 

“It is me,” Costia whispers as she smiles slightly, but Lexa can’t quite let her voice sink in, can’t quite acknowledge what stands before her. Who stands before her.

And it must be a lie, it must be a cruel, twisted, evil thing that Nia plays. Or perhaps Lexa has died, perhaps an assassin slipped a blade between her ribs while she slept, and what she lives now is punishment for the lives she has taken, for the lives she has ordered away. Maybe Clarke’s safe return is merely the figment of her mind as it tries to reconcile the wrongs, the lack of action she had taken to rescue Costia, to let Azgeda into her Coalition. 

And so Lexa turns, she pushes past the Azgeda who still excite and smile and clasp each other in jovial celebration at the return of Wanheda and her daring escape.

Lexa’s feet take her back to the tent and she feels her eyes begin to burn from lack of blinking, but she thinks if she closes her eyes, if she lets her eyelids shut that the last image she has of Costia will fade, will torment and laugh at her. Or perhaps it will remain, the only thing to remember her by being the scars and the pain and the hurt and uncertainty that she saw in once happy eyes.

Lexa pushes through her tent’s entrance, and her feet take her into the centre of it and she pauses. Her feet shuffle awkwardly as she tries to reconcile what she has seen, what she has heard. But an anger comes roaring into existence, it comes crashing through her mind, and she feels the snarl that rips past her lips, that tears at her throat and so she draws her sword in one ferocious scream, and she feels the anger in her mind as she slices through a chair leg, as she slashes at her tabletop and as she punches fiercely into the pillar that holds the centre of her tent up.

Pain explodes across her knuckles though, and she knows she has damaged her hand, she knows she has weakened herself, has been foolish, has been stupid. She knows herself a fool to let her mind play tricks on her, to tease and torment. To laugh at a memory of what was once a—

“Lexa?” and she spins around to find Clarke standing at her entrance, her eyes taking in the damage, the destruction that Lexa caused in such little time. “It’s real,” Clarke says, and Lexa doesn’t miss the way Clarke stays by the entrance, she doesn’t miss the way Clarke doesn’t quite meet her eyes, doesn’t try to bridge the distance between them. 

Lexa blinks, and she knows she feels the tears begin to well, begin to really take hold, to take root and bring a shuddering through her chest. But Clarke smiles once before she ducks out of the tent, and then Costia walks in cautiously, her eyes careful as she takes in the destruction, as she takes in the anger Lexa lets live freely within the fur and leather confines.

“Lexa,” she whispers, and Lexa doesn’t miss the way Costia pauses in the same place Clarke had once stood.

But still, Lexa takes in the richness of Costia’s skin, the life that breathes past her lips, the way her hair frames her face, the curls ever unruly, a single messy braid all that keeps it back and out of her eyes. She gazes at the scar that stretches down her cheek, she looks into the hazel eyes that meet hers, and she takes in the way Costia’s fingers shake just slightly despite the fisting of her hands by her side.

Lexa’s head begins to shake, and she feels the pain that slips past her lips. And she falls to her knees, her eyes close and she fists her hands against her eyes, she presses hard, she tries to burn away the last image she ever saw of Costia, she tries to scrub the memory of torn flesh, the beheading brutal, slow, caused by a rusted weapon. She tries to tear the image of an eyeless face, of lips that had been torn, of a nose that had been broken beyond recognition, of cuts and bruises and blood and pus that had bled and smeared into her own clothes as she cradled the head to her chest in anguish.

“Costia,” she croaks out, and she knows she must seem little more than a broken woman, little more than a shell of who she should be, of who she has been for years. “Costia,” and her voice trembles, her mind refuses to accept, refuses to acknowledge. 

It can’t be. Not after all this time. Not after the days spent eagerly waiting for her return, not after the nights spent realising something had gone wrong, not after the weeks of pain and acceptance, not after the reports from scouts who had said nothing was found. Not after Nia had been accepted into the Coalition. And not after her head had been placed in front of her.

But yet,

“Lexa,” and Costia’s voice comes out quiet, comes out close, and Lexa feels the memories begin to trickle into existence. And she thinks she feels the ghosting of hands against her cheek, she thinks she even feels her mind play with her, tell her that the presence that kneels before her is real, that the warmth of her skin is real, that the blood that flows through her veins is real.

“You are not real,” Lexa whispers, her eyes still held shut, her chest shuddering, her voice cracking. “You are not real,” she repeats. 

“I am,” Costia says quietly, and Lexa hears no hurt, she hears no pain, no anger in her voice. Only acceptance and understanding. “Feel me,” Costia whispers as she brushes a thumb against her cheek. “I am real.” 

And so Lexa looks, and she stares with wide eyes at the face that meets her gaze.

“Costia?” and Lexa’s voice comes out quiet, disbelieving, but yet she reaches out with her uninjured hand, her fingers tentative as they brush against the woman’s cheek, as they begin to familiarise the curve of her jaw, the line of her nose. “Costia?” Lexa thinks her words come out a  question, come out awkward and lame and timid. 

But Costia’s hand closes around hers and pulls it from her face tenderly before she leans back a space, just enough so that breath is created between them, so that distance is given.

“It is me,” she smiles sadly.

“You were dead,” Lexa whispers. “I saw, I—” and Lexa looks away as memories come crashing back once more, as the pain and the anger burns in her mind. “Your eyes,” and Lexa raises a trembling finger as it brushes against Costia’s closed eyes before her fingertips trail down her cheek. “Your nose,” and she feathers her finger across Costia’s nose before she brings it down to brush against the cut etched into Costia’s lip, “this,” and Lexa’s voice trembles, but as her finger continues to feel the warmth of Costia’s flesh, she thinks Costia must let the contact remain, she thinks Costia senses her need for this moment. “They were gone,” Lexa whispers. “You were dead.”

“I am sorry, Lexa,” Costia says quietly. 

“How?” Lexa questions though, disbelief still clouding her thoughts. 

“Nia is cruel,” Costia answers simply. “I tried to escape,” and Lexa watches as Costia looks away for a moment. “I tried, but I was caught every time.”

Lexa’s eyes begin to take in the years of pain etched into Costia’s flesh, the scars that cut into her body. 

“It is my fault,” Lexa whispers as realisation dawns on her. “I should have tried to rescue you. I should have looked,” and she feels the regret and anger begin to burn anew. “I should have searched. I should ha—”

“You should not have done anything,” Costia says simply. “I do not blame you, Lexa.”

“How?” and Lexa shakes her head. “How can you not blame me? How can you forgive me for leaving you to suffer?” 

“Because,” and Costia takes a breath, she takes a pause as her eyes turn thoughtful for a moment. “I do not blame you because you are you,” and she shrugs. “I am proud of you, Lexa,” Costia continues, but Lexa shakes her head, she refuses to accept Costia’s words. “You accomplished so much,” and Costia squeezes her hand for a moment, and she lets their gazes meet before she continues. “I am proud of what you have done.”

Lexa takes a moment longer to let Costia’s presence sink in, to let the warmth under her finger tips bleed into her mind, she takes the time to replace the image of a bloodied, mutilated, contorted head. And then she nods once.

“You are alive,” Lexa whispers, and the truth begins to sink in. “You are alive,” and Lexa thinks she feels a smile tug at her lips. “You are alive,” and she reaches out and grasps Costia in her arms, holds her close and feels the beat of a heart she had thought stilled long ago. 

 

* * *

 

Clarke can’t help but to think over what must be happening inside Lexa’s tent in this moment. She thinks over the destruction she had seen, she thinks over the noises she had heard before she had entered. And she thinks over the quiet that settles now. She thinks she’s never been a jealous person, never even really been someone to worry and pine over another. But perhaps in this moment she feels a regret that she had never quite discussed what had existed between them both, never quite addressed what feelings had lingered between them both. She thinks that even now Lexa might not know how to react in this moment, and Clarke thinks she couldn’t begrudge Lexa, couldn’t deny Lexa the time to accept a lost love that now lives. 

But as Clarke sighs she knows she feels a slight tremble in her lips, a slight ache in her heart at what she thinks may come to an end before it even really had a chance to settle.

Clarke looks up at the sound of approaching feet though, and she sees Ontari walking up to her carefully, her eyes glancing from the tent and then back to her as she stands awkwardly outside.

“I spoke to Echo,” Ontari begins awkwardly. 

“Yeah?” Clarke asks.

“I spoke to Echo about her,” Ontari stresses with a careful tilting of her head towards Lexa’s tent.

“Oh,” and Clarke looks away for a moment.

“Do you wish to talk?” Ontari asks carefully, her eyes slightly guarded as she tries to peer through the leathers and furs that hide whatever happens inside Lexa’s tent.

“Maybe later,” Clarke answers as she worries her lip. “It’s complicated,” she shrugs.

“It is,” and Ontari nods slightly. “Come, Clarke,” and she reaches forward and grasps Clarke’s hand, but she gasps loudly as she sees Clarke’s missing nails, the nail beds still raw and bloodied, though the cold, Clarke has found, helps with the pain. “Clarke,” Ontari hisses as she stares at her fingers.

“It’s ok,” Clarke says quickly. “They don’t hurt so much at the moment,” and she winces as Ontari squeezes more harshly as she pulls her hand up to her face to inspect the wounds. “I promise they’re ok,” and she sees Ontari eye them for a long moment.

But Clarke thinks she senses a shifting of Ontari’s emotions, and as she watches the woman she knows she feels a darkening of her mood, and a hardening of her eyes. 

“Hey,” and she nudges Ontari’s shoulder. 

“Sorry,” Ontari mutters as her eyes soften slightly. “I do not like it,” she says simply. “Come,” and she tugs on Clarke’s wrist tentatively as she begins to walk towards the camp fire.

And so Clarke lets herself be pulled from Lexa’s tent, but perhaps, if only for the times she has spent with Lexa, the nights spent together on the side of the Mountain, the moments of quiet, and even the moments where she wishes Lexa wasn’t so stubborn, so evasive and unwilling to open up, she glances over her shoulder and lets her gaze linger on the tent.

 

* * *

 

The silence stretches out between them for a while, and as Lexa lets her eyes relearn Costia’s face she feels the slight settling of her heart, the slight easing of the tension that had built in her mind.

“You have broken things,” Costia says quietly as she glances around the tent, and Lexa feels herself wince as she, too, takes in the damage, the scattered plates and broken chair leg and hacked table top.  

“Yes,” she says simply. 

Costia looks around herself for a moment then, and Lexa watches as thoughts sift and linger and settle within the other woman’s mind.

“I know of you and Clarke,” Costia begins after a pause, her eyes careful as she meets Lexa’s gaze.

And perhaps Lexa was a fool to think this conversation could be avoided, perhaps she was naive to think the awkwardness and the frustration could be pushed aside.

And so Lexa’s mouth opens to reply, to say something, to try to explain how long she had waited, how long she had spent alone, had spent shielding herself from weakness. But Costia shakes her head, smiles at her for a moment and squeezes her hand.

“It is ok,” she says, and Lexa watches as Costia takes in a steadying breath. “I am happy for you,” she finishes.

“No one could replace you, Co—”

But Costia shakes her head.

“No,” and Costia’s eyes harden slightly. “I will not allow you to throw Clarke aside,” and Costia’s voice hardens too, but only slightly, only enough that Lexa feels the words as admonishment and as careful warning.

“Bu—”

“No, Lexa,” and Costia shakes her head more forcefully. “You care for her,” and Costia softens her gaze. “I saw it in the way you looked at her when we returned,” and Lexa watches as Costia’s gaze moves across her face. “And I know Clarke cares for you, too. She would not have let me in here, she would not have so selflessly stepped aside if she did not,” and Costia shakes her head once more. “You did not break the Coalition because of me. And I will not allow you to break Clarke’s heart because of me, either.”

But as Costia’s words reach her ears, Lexa feels herself cracking once more, she feels the guilt, the anger and the fury that she thinks had always lingered in the back of her mind.

“Why do you not hate me?” Lexa whispers, and she knows her eyes begin to tear up, begin to wet and break. “Why do you not resent my actions?”

“Because I know you, Lexa,” and Costia smiles, and the motion comes watery, too, it comes sadly and tiredly.

Lexa meets Costia’s gaze, and as the moment stretches, she thinks words will have to be shared, she knows wrongs will have to be righted, and reassurances will have to be made. But perhaps for now she allows herself to be weak. To be selfish.

“Ok,” Lexa says, and she nods once, and she lets her hand fall from Costia’s careful grasp.

 

* * *

 

“Did you know?” Roan hisses, his eyes staring at Silence who kneels before him. 

“Yes, Prince Roan,” Silence says, and Roan’s gaze moves to Echo who stands close by, her hand grasping a knife as she eyes Silence.

“And you did not see fit to inform me that Costia still lived?” Roan continues, his voice gruff and coarse.

“I did not have the opportunity to speak to you since the fall of the Mountain,” Silence says.

“You did not even try?” Roan snarls as he rises from his chair and comes to stand before Silence.

“I did not,” Silence says simply.

“Explain,” and Roan stares at the man.

“I did not know if Costia had been turned, Prince Roan,” Silence says. “If she had been then would it not be better for me to have killed her without word of her existence escaping? Of influencing how things were already progressing?” and Silence raises his head as he meets Roan’s icy stare.

“I do not like it either, Prince Roan,” Echo says. “But it makes sense,” and Echo looks away as whatever memories that linger in her mind begin to surface. “It would have been bad if the Commander had known of her existence only for Silence to kill her.”

Roan takes in a deep breath then, and he thinks over what both assassins say.

“If you keep things from me again, Silence, I will have you punished,” he says as he meets the assassin’s gaze. “Do you understand?” 

“Yes, Prince Roan,” Silence says as he bows his head once more. 

“You may leave,” Roan finishes with a jerking of his chin towards his tent’s exit.

Echo waits until Silence slips from the tent before her hand falls from the hilt of her knife.

“You do not trust him?” she asks. 

“Silence is no fool,” Roan sighs. “He wishes the best for Azgeda, so for now he will abide by my law. But in the months to come he may become a problem,” and Roan shrugs as he takes a seat back in his chair.

“I can kill him,” Echo says simply.

“Not yet,” and Roan smirks slightly. “Perhaps never. He has served Azgeda loyally for years. He will continue to do so as long as he thinks Azgeda is not being drawn into a dire situation.”

Echo takes a moment to think over his words before she relaxes somewhat, and Roan watches as she sighs before leaning against the edge of the table, a hand brushing over her hair for a moment.

“The Commander will be angry,” Echo begins.

“She will,” Roan answers.

“She will demand answer,” Echo continues.

“She will,” he repeats.

“You are not worried?” Echo asks, an eyebrow raising slightly.

“No,” Roan says, his thoughts already turning to the future. “We had no knowledge of Costia’s existence. We have nothing to fear.”

“But if the Commander does not believe us?” 

“She will,” and he laughs quietly as Echo merely rolls her eyes.

Echo’s head turns at the sounds of approaching feet though, and so she pushes off from the table and ducks out of the tent. Roan hears Jenma’s voice carry over the wind, and he thinks he even hears a ripple go through the small camp before Echo pokes her head back into the tent.

“Hotun has returned,” Echo begins. “He has a prisoner.”

“Bring them,” Roan says.

And so Echo nods once before retreating back outside, and Roan waits. It only takes Echo a short amount of time before she pushes into the tent once more, Hotun following close behind her as Jenma and Bronat push a hooded figure in behind them.

“Thank you,” Roan says as he inclines his head to Jenma and Bronat who both nod once before ducking back outside. “Hotun,” he finishes with a nod of his head at the warrior who had volunteered to help free Clarke.

“Prince Roan,” the man says, and Roan takes a moment to take in his dishevelled furs, the sweat that clings to his body despite the cold, and the blood that smears his cheek.

“Kenma?” Roan asks.

“He did not arrive at the rendezvous,” Hotun says as his eyes turn mournful for a moment.

Roan curses quietly before he breathes in for a moment, the cool air settling his raising temper.

“Thank you, Hotun,” Roan begins once his thoughts ease. “You may leave.”

And Hotun bows once before he eyes the prisoner cautiously before ducking back out of the tent.

And so Roan’s eyes fall to the prisoner, and as he takes in the stark white fur that lines the man’s collar, the scar that peeks up his neck and the blood that dirties his shoulder, Roan thinks he feels his lips pull up slightly, and he knows Echo smirks just a bit.

“It is a risk,” Roan begins as he continues to eye the hooded man, “to be so brazen in your approach,” and Roan sees the man shrug exaggeratedly, and he hears a muffled grunt of assertion. “Remove his hood,” Roan says to Echo.

And so Echo steps forward and pulls the hood from the man’s face.

“Teril,” Roan says evenly, his eyes quickly taking in a fresh cut on his cheek.

“Prince Roan,” Teril answers as he glances over his shoulder to Echo.

“Do you know what happened to Kenma?” Roan begins.

“I do not,” Teril says. “He went east and warriors chased him, I was with those that chased Hotun.”

“And what did Hotun say when you surrendered?”

“He gave me this,” and Teril turns his face to show the cut down his cheek.

“They do not suspect?” Roan says.

“I do not believe so,” Teril shrugs awkwardly with his uninjured shoulder.

“And my mother?” Roan asks.

“She has returned to the capital,” and Teril rolls his shoulders to lessen the tightness in them, his arms bound behind his back.

“Why were you left behind at the village?” Roan questions.

“I volunteered,” Teril answered.

“She does not suspect?” Roan presses though, his thoughts turning to what his mother may be planning in the Azgeda capital.

“I made it seem as though the Northern Azgeda who disappeared, who she suspected of siding with you, had infuriated me,” Teril answers. “I told her that I wanted to atone for their sins by getting information from Wanheda personally.”  

“You were the one to torture her?” Roan asks, an eyebrow raising. 

“I ensured she was not conscious for most of it,” Teril says stiffly. 

“You are lucky she is not aware of your presence then,” Roan says simply. “I would not be surprised if she called for your head.”

“It was my duty,” Teril answers.

Roan takes a moment to think over what Teril says, and he sees Echo step forward with a flask before lifting it to Teril’s lips.

“Thank you,” Teril says once she pulls the flask away.

“You are welcome,” Echo replies.

“Things will move quickly now,” Roan says as Echo takes a step back, and he sees Teril nod in understanding. 

“I understand the risks.”

“We may not be able to rescue you if things go wrong,” Roan counters, but he sees Teril shrug once more. 

“It is my duty, Prince Roan.”

“Very well,” and Roan gestures to Echo who takes a step forward. “Echo will need to make you look like a prisoner that escaped,” and Roan feels the remorse that colours his tone. 

“I understand,” Teril says simply. “We all have a part to play.”

“We will leave you a horse once we break camp,” Roan says as he rises and begins heading to the exit. “Continue to feed my mother any information that Echo sends you,” he finishes as he begins pulling back the tent flap.

“Prince Roan,” Teril calls out quietly, and Roan pauses and turns to face the wounded guard who looks over his shoulder at him. “If I am unable to do so, please tell Wanheda that I am sorry for causing her pain.” 

“I will tell her if it comes to it,” Roan says as he meets the man’s eyes for a long moment. 


	25. Chapter 25

Clarke grunts out quietly as she swings herself up onto a horse, and she sees Ontari’s head turning from her to Entani and back, and Clarke is sure the woman wars with who to help, or perhaps merely whether she should even offer despite knowing either, or both would refuse. The thought pulls a smile from her lips, and as she meets Torvun’s own quiet smirk she knows she feels a happiness that she has been reunited with her friends.

“We move quickly,” Roan’s voice echoes out around them. “We do not stop until we are in Trikru lands,” he finishes, and Clarke sees Lexa nod once as both leaders share a glance.

 

* * *

 

The snow fields of Azgeda slip past Clarke rapidly, and as she urges her horse forwards she sees a small number of Azgeda direct their horses away from the main group in an attempt to throw off any who may track the trail they leave. Clarke glances at the Trikru warriors though, and as she eyes the small number that had accompanied Lexa into Azgeda lands, she thinks she sees Anya staying ever present by Costia’s side, and she knows she sees a majority of them riding much too close to her. She even spies Jaha who sits tied and blindfolded behind a large Trikru warrior, and as the horse jostles Jaha’s wrist, she thinks she even sees him flinch from the pain Ontari had caused when he was captured.

“They do not give her space,” Ontari snorts over the wind, her chin lifting in the direction of Costia as she lets her horse fall into stride beside Clarke’s.

“The Commander is paranoid,” Clarke says over the wind.

She doesn’t miss the way Ontari’s gaze softens slightly as she glances to the front of the war band, her gaze falling to Lexa’s back as it moves easily with the motions of her horse.

“You are prettier,” Ontari says simply as she casts a long gaze towards Costia before her eyes turn back to Clarke with a smile.

And so Clarke smiles slightly, and she lets Ontari’s presence nearby soothe her worries for the moment.

 

* * *

 

The trees begin to bleed out through the snow now, and as Clarke squints she knows she can see the forests of Trikru lands that begin to take hold in the distance. The horses’ paces also increase now, the snow underfoot more compact, denser, more gravel and rock and dirt. She even senses the eagerness of crossing the border into Trikru lands that rolls off from the few Trikru, their time spent secretly in Azgeda not welcomed, not appreciated.

Clarke’s gaze shifts to Lexa’s back, and as she takes in the woman’s hair that billows out behind her, she can’t help but to think of things to come, and isn’t it a cruel thing to now be faced with a decision that she thinks already made. And perhaps it’s petty, perhaps it’s not even that important in comparison to the things she has done, to the sleepless nights that come and go. But maybe Clarke just wishes to be selfish for now, just wishes to let herself wallow in a pool of churning emotions.

Lexa must sense her gaze because the woman shifts in her saddle and looks over her shoulder. And their eyes meet. And it’s just for a moment, but perhaps it’s long enough that Clarke recognises the uncertainty in Lexa’s own gaze, in the way her body shifts ever so slightly in the breeze, in the way her head nods minutely, so slightly that Clarke thinks she imagined the motion.

But Lexa turns to face forwards once more, her eyes turning to the trees that begin to reach up through the snow as they bleed into existed around the weary warriors.

 

* * *

 

A horn echoes out through the forest at the same time the group crosses into the trees, and Clarke feels the Azgeda tense up slightly at the sound, and she sees the Trikru relax even further now. The war party slows its pace, too, and she sees the Azgeda begin to split into smaller groups, their eyes ever roaming as they look into the sparse trees around them, years of habit and hostility not so easily swayed by tense truces.

Clarke sees a Trikru warrior bring a horn to her lips in answer to the first, and Clarke watches as she takes in a deep breath before blowing. The sound rings out around them, and Clarke eyes a bird that takes flight to the sound, the vibrations disturbing its once peaceful rest. 

“Movement left,” Clarke hears an Azgeda warrior hiss out.

Clarke sees a couple warriors closest to her tense, and she feels a few begin to move closer to Roan who rides at the forefront of the group. But a small number of warriors bleed out through the trees, and Clarke can’t help but smirk slightly at the familiarity of the meeting, at the way she once more finds herself reintroduced to Trikru lands.

Indra rides forward easily, her eyes gazing from Trikru to Azgeda face, her hand settled easily on the reins of her horse. Lincoln and Octavia flank her, and Clarke thinks she spies a small number of Trikru warriors lurking further back in the trees as they wait.

“Heda,” Indra says as she comes to a pause before Lexa.

“Indra,” and Lexa nods.

Clarke’s gaze meets Octavia’s, and they share a nod quietly before Octavia pulls her attention back to the quiet words Indra and Lexa share. Clarke watches as Indra glances past Lexa and at the Azgeda, and she sees Indra nod her way. But Clarke thinks she feels her lips twitch into a smile despite the situation as Indra glances past Costia only to do a double take, her eyes widening for only a moment before they snap back to Lexa’s who continues to talk quietly.

“We move,” Lexa calls out, and Clarke sees Roan nod as he pulls his horse up besides Lexa’s, both leaders beginning to urge their horses forward easily.

 

* * *

 

The war party makes camp for the night as the sun begins to dip below the horizon. Snow only just bleeds into the ground this far south. More Trikru warriors had arrived, too, and as Clarke looks around at the tents beginning to be erected she can’t help but to feel the careful energy that breathes throughout the camp, and she thinks it an anticipation of the plans that have been made, the plots and careful manoeuvring of warriors to the border, and even the obscuring of Azgeda warriors loyal to Roan and his cause.

“The Commander wishes to see you, Clarke,” and she looks up to see Octavia standing behind her. 

“Ok,” and Clarke looks around briefly before Ontari takes the reins from her hands, already waving her away. 

“I will handle this,” Ontari says tiredly.

And so Clarke returns a smile before falling into step behind Octavia as the Trikru woman begins to wind her way through the warriors and tents that already begin to be erected through the forest floor.

“I’m happy you’re ok, Clarke,” Octavia says. “Everyone freaked out a little once the challenge ended,” and she shrugs. 

“Yeah,” and Clarke worries her lip slightly only to wince at a cut that only just started healing.

“Skaikru came, too,” Octavia continues. “A lot are at Ton DC now. Abby, too,” and Clarke sees Octavia eye her carefully.

“How’d they take the news?” Clarke finds herself asking.

“Abby freaked out,” Octavia says simply. 

“Yeah,” and Clarke looks up into the sky for a moment. “I can imagine.”

They come to a pause at a large tent then, and Clarke eyes its familiarity and size. A guard stands before them, too, and he holds up a hand before he calls out their arrival. Clarke hears Lexa’s voice call out then, and so the guard turns around and nods their way. 

“You may enter, Wanheda,” he says gruffly. 

Clarke steps into the tent, and she takes a moment to let her eyes adjust before she takes a few more tentative steps forward. Looking around, Clarke finds Lexa sitting in her throne, and she recognises Shana who kneels behind her, head tilted to the side in concentration as her fingers braid Lexa’s hair back into its usual twists and turns. 

“You wanted to see me, Commander?” Clarke asks, and she doesn’t miss the way Lexa’s eyes shift slightly at the use of her title.

“Yes,” Lexa answers as she waves Shana off who smiles slightly before bowing and ducking out of the tent.

Lexa waits until Shana’s absence fully settles before she rises and takes a step from her throne so that she meets Clarke half way.

“There are things we should discuss, Clarke,” Lexa begins.

“Yeah,” and Clarke looks away, and she finds herself not quite sure how to begin, not quite sure what more she should say.

“You ha—”

“I know Co—”

Both women pause. And Clarke watches as Lexa swallows before she breathes in deeply, closes her eyes and grits her teeth for a moment.

“I don’t blame you,” Clarke begins as she sees Lexa’s breath come out shaky. “I know how much she meant—” but Clarke finds herself pausing for a moment, “—how much she means to you,” and Clarke finds herself looking away as the last of her words trail off. “It’s ok, Lexa,” she says. “It’s o—”

But Lexa moves. She leans forward, her hand reaches out and grips Clarke’s waist as she pulls their bodies together. And Clarke’s eyes widen as Lexa’s gaze shifts across her face for only a moment and Clarke watches as Lexa’s eyes close and then she presses her lips to Clarke’s. 

And Clarke finds the move brazen, sudden, surprising, and it takes her a long moment to realise that her eyes have remained open, that her lips remain slackened and that Lexa already begins to pull away, her own eyes widening as she sees the shock that must live across Clarke’s face.

“Clarke,” she stammers. “I—”

But Clarke leans forward, her hands grip Lexa’s waist and she pulls them back together. But this time she smiles into the kiss as their lips touch, and she feels the tension ebb from Lexa’s body as she relaxes and as the kiss lengthens. Lexa pushes forward, in search and in want, and Clarke lets her take the lead, she lets Lexa’s hand brush against her cheek, she lets Lexa’s lips chase hers and she lets her own heart settle in its drumming pace.

And then it slows. 

The kiss slows, it turns more comforting, it turns less full of turmoil, less desperate and wanting, and in its place Clarke thinks it turns soothing, gentle, and she finds her finger brushing against the shell of Lexa’s ear, and she thinks she hears Lexa whimper quietly as she presses herself to the other woman and as she pushes her back, and she knows she hears Lexa’s grunt of annoyance as her back hits the table Clarke only just realises blocks their way.

But Lexa surges forward once more, her leg hooks behind Clarke’s and she spins them around so that Clarke finds her lower back pressed into the wood. Lexa breaks the kiss then, and her lips trail down Clarke’s jaw, and she feels Lexa’s thumb brush against the raised edges of the scars that run down her cheek, that decorate her face and mark her as Azgeda.

Clarke finds herself breathing Lexa’s name, and she thinks the rasp to her voice unfamiliar and foreign to her, but she thinks she feels the shudder that runs through the other woman’s body and she knows she feels the smile that presses against the curve of her throat. Lexa hums into the kiss, her hands settling fully on Clarke’s hips as she pushes forward.

But Lexa stops. She pulls her face away, and she breathes in deeply as her forehead rests against the rising of Clarke’s chest.

“I am sorry, Clarke,” Lexa says quietly as she looks up as she takes a measured step back.

“I—” but Clarke swallows dryly, her throat rough, her mind frenzied. “You can’t leave me like this,” she manages to say as she gestures between them and as her gaze flits over Lexa’s face to find her cheeks flushed, a smile on her lips.

“I am sorry for that, too, Clarke,” and Clarke knows she sees a smile in Lexa’s eyes, and she knows she hears the smirk in her voice. 

“Stop saying sorry, Lexa. Just—”

“Let me finish,” Lexa interrupts, and Clarke glares at the lifting of Lexa’s lips. “I am sorry, Clarke,” Lexa repeats. “That I have been distant,” and Lexa looks away.

“It’s ok,” Clarke finds herself repeating, too. And she thinks it is ok. If only because she couldn’t begrudge Lexa’s confusion, Lexa’s anger, Lexa’s hurt and anguish. “I understand,” and Clarke grunts out quietly as she pushes off from the side of the table, her body protesting the motion. She even feels Lexa shift closer to her, she even sees the twitching of Lexa’s hands as they go to reach out, as they go to gr—

“What did you do to your hand?” Clarke says as her gaze falls to the bandage around her hand. 

“It is nothing,” Lexa says quickly as she goes to hide it behind her back.

“It’s not nothing,” Clarke snaps as she snatches Lexa’s hand from behind her back. And she sighs as she sees the bruising around Lexa’s knuckles and the slight grey of the paste that must cover a wound. “Let me change that for you,” she says as she looks around for fresh cloth of bandages, or for even a healer’s pack. “How’d you do this?” Clarke asks as she finds herself pulling Lexa to her obscured private quarters that remain hidden by a sheer fabric that hangs from the ceiling. 

“Costia,” Lexa says simply, her gaze not quiet meeting Clarke’s.

“Oh,” and Clarke feels a grimace that pulls at her lips, the exhilaration of earlier beginning to now bleed away.

The silence lingers between them then, and as Clarke settles on Lexa’s bed she thinks it slightly awkward, slightly odd.

“I have not been fair to you,” Lexa begins quietly. 

“I understand, Lexa. I really do,” and Clarke lets their eyes meet for a long moment. “I don’t blame you,” and she smiles. “Anyone would need time.”

“It has been difficult to adjust,” Lexa says, and Clarke thinks she hears the fraying of Lexa’s voice slightly. 

“I wasn’t going to make you choose,” Clarke says though, and she dips her head so that she still holds Lexa’s gaze as the other woman’s eyes fall to her lap. 

“I—” but Lexa doesn’t quite meet her gaze as she bites her lip slightly. “I lost Costia years ago,” Lexa begins after a moment. “I did not know how to act, how to react to her,” she admits quietly. 

“Talk to her,” Clarke whispers. “Like you’re talking to me,” and Clarke lifts Lexa’s chin with a finger. “You aren’t alone in this, Lexa.”

“You would still have me even with Costia’s return?” Lexa asks.

Clarke scoffs at the woman’s words though, and she can’t help but to let her eyes roll. 

“Of course, Lexa,” and Clarke sees Lexa nod slightly. “I’m not a child,” and she looks away in thought for a moment. “Every relationship has its challenges,” she finishes quietly. “I trust you,” and Clarke squeezes Lexa’s knee.

But Clarke’s eyes narrow slightly as a smile begins to form across Lexa’s lips, the woman’s eyes taking on a quiet glint in the dark light.

“What?” Clarke asks. 

“Is that what Skaikru call it?”

“Call what?” and Clarke frowns.

“What exists between us. A relationship,” and Lexa shrugs slightly. “A bond,” she finishes.

“I guess so?” and Clarke feels her own lip twitch sightly. “If you want it to be one,” she adds. 

“That sounds satisfactory, Clarke,” Lexa says evenly. 

Clarke’s eyes roll, and she knows she senses the laughter that exists behind Lexa’s mask of indifference and so she pokes Lexa in the ribs lightly. But Clarke feels a sense of relief, however slight, that Lexa has acknowledged their connection. At least for now.

“Regardless of what happened, and what will happen, between us, or whoever,” and Clarke gestures awkwardly around them once more. “I’m happy for you,” and she pauses. “Costia is a good person, Lexa, and you deserve her back in your life,” Clarke finishes.

Lexa turns quiet though, and Clarke thinks thoughts of revenge must linger through the woman’s mind, or perhaps memories of pain and anguish. 

“Hey,” and she prods Lexa’s thigh gently. “Don’t face whatever it is alone,” she challenges. 

She watches as Lexa shakes herself free of the thoughts then, and she smiles as Lexa meets her gaze, an easiness returning to her slowly. And so Lexa looks away in thought for a moment before she meets Clarke’s gaze just once more.

“Perhaps with Costia’s return I will have more than enough to keep myself busy with,” she says cooly.

“Don’t you dare joke about that.”

 

* * *

 

Ontari’s feet step louder than she needs as she approaches the small clearing as the sun begins to dip below the horizon. She feels the Trikru guards that follow her, and she sees the shadow of one that moves in the treetops above her as she continues to walk.

“I know you follow me,” she snaps as she turns to face whichever warrior it is that stalks her. 

“We do not wish to hide,” Lincoln answers as he slips out from a shadow.

“Then why do you follow?” Ontari snarls. 

“Because you are Azgeda,” Lincoln shrugs. “You will forgive us for not fully trusting any Azgeda at this time.”

“I am with Wanheda,” Ontari snaps, her hands coming to rest on her hips as she glares up at the taller man. “Is that not proof enough of where my loyalties lie.”

“That is proof enough that you do not side with the Commander,” Lincoln answers cooly. 

Ontari curses him out as she turns though, and then she begins to walk forwards once more, her eyes falling to the tracks she follows through the underbrush. She follows it for another few minutes until a clearing appears before her. She pauses by its edge for a moment and she takes in the sight before her. Long shadows stretch out, the trees casting their shadow far, and as the sun dapples through the branches Ontari watches as they paint the grass smudges of reds and oranges.

Ontari glances behind her once more to find Lincoln leaning against a tree, his eyes following her movements carefully, a hand on his knife.

“I will not attack,” Ontari says sharply.

“I am sure you understand her cautions,” Lincoln says, but Ontari thinks she senses an apology in the way Lincoln’s gaze softens just a little.

And so Ontari sighs forcefully, she tries to clear her mind of the things she knows, of the years of service, and the hate and anger and betrayal that seems to exist in the very corners of her mind. 

Ontari’s feet brush against the grass quietly, and as she walks forward, as she treads lightly, she watches as Costia continues to lie back in the grass, her fingers playing with the green of the grass. Costia looks up though, and Ontari watches as Costia’s gaze moves once from her face and then into the trees before settling back on her. 

“You are being watched,” Ontari says simply as she comes to a pause in front of Costia.

“I know,” Costia says as she sits fully, her legs crossing. 

“You do not tell them to go away?” Ontari questions.

“They would not listen to me even if I told them to go,” and Costia shrugs.

Ontari studies the woman for a long moment, and as she lets her gaze move over her face, she feels a slight recoiling in her stomach as she eyes the scar across her cheek and the way it twists the top of Costia’s lip.

“Is it true?” Ontari asks quietly.

Costia’s eyebrow raises in question.

“Is it true you are the Commander’s?”

“Yes,” Costia replies carefully. “But not anymore,” she adds. “That died years ago,” and she shrugs before looking away for a moment. 

“You are not jealous of Clarke?” Ontari presses.

“No,” and Costia looks back to her. “You think I am a threat to your friend?” and Costia raises her chin. “You think I will try to kill her? Take my place by Lexa’s side?”

“I do not know what to think,” Ontari counters.

Costia’s lip lifts up though, and Ontari watches as she swipes a messy strand of hair behind an ear. 

“I am no viper,” and Costia gestures to the grass in front of her. “You can sit.”

Ontari takes a measured look at her though, and she lets the silence linger for a long pause before glancing over her shoulder and into the trees.

“Stand, if you wish,” Costia says.

But perhaps sitting is not so bad. And so Ontari takes a step forward before sitting in front of Costia, the woman’s gaze careful as she takes her measure. 

“Ontari, yes?” Costia asks as she stretches her legs out before her. 

“Yes,” Ontari nods. 

“And what do you do, Ontari?” Costia asks.

“I am a warrior,” she answers simply.

“A warrior?” and Costia looks at her carefully. “And what business does a warrior have following me?”

Ontari takes another pause then, and she lets her thoughts drift to the revelations she now knows, she thinks of the actions and events that have occurred, and she thinks of how Entani had been wounded, she thinks of how the Mountain Men had killed Azgeda, and she thinks of how Clarke had been taken, had been beaten and tortured and held captive for only doing what she thought was best for her clan. And she thinks of Kwin Nia. She thinks of the things she has been told, of how Kwin Nia has sided with the Mountain, has stooped so low as to sully Azgeda’s name, to dishonour the dead and the warriors that still fight and suffer from the attacks.

“Is it true?” Ontari asks. 

“Is what true?” Costia says.

“Is it true Kwin Nia had you captured?” and Ontari thinks of how warriors would fight on the battlefield, of how they would meet a foe head on, or perhaps issue a challenge and face an opponent in single combat. Of how they wouldn’t rely on subterfuge, on cowardly tactics and dishonouring the memory of those who had already fallen.

“Yes,” Costia says as her eyes harden in the fading light.

And so Ontari nods, “I am sorry,” she says simply, but she takes the time to accept the signs of torture that decorate Costia’s body, she takes the time to analyse the scar that rips through her cheek, the one that dips into her lip, and she takes in the smaller cuts, the ones that litter her flesh and that speak of years spent in pain.

“You are why Prince Roan was captured,” Ontari says as she meets Costia’s careful gaze.

“Yes,” Costia shrugs. “The Commander imprisoned him after he delivered my head to her.”

Ontari looks away then, and she tries to reconcile the things she knows, has been told. Her mind turns to Prince Roan though, and she remembers the first time she had seen him after his release, when he had snuck into their tent. And even now, as he works with the Commander, she thinks his treatment, his captivity far less severe. For surely, if someone had delivered a loved one’s head to her, if someone had been so cruel, so cold to have done such a thing, she would have sought revenge, she would have wanted to destroy them, and she knows she would have tortured them, would have caused them pain, let them suffer.

“The Commander is not as evil as you have been led to believe,” Costia says into the quiet, her eyes careful as they take in Ontari’s quiet mood. 

Ontari meets Costia’s gaze for a moment longer then, and as she lets the silence grow, she thinks her words carry a truth and are genuine. At least somewhat. 

“Goodbye,” Ontari says as she stands and begins walking away, her thoughts turning, and her mind unsettled.

 

* * *

 

Clarke wakes to the noise of approaching horses, to voices carrying over the wind and to the familiar squeeze of Ontari’s arm as it holds her waist, and to the unruly waves of Entani’s hair as it fans out across the pillow. Entani grumbles quietly in her sleep, and Clarke watches as she scrunches her nose and buries her face into the furs before rolling over. 

But she feels Ontari stir, she feels the woman squeeze her slightly before yawning and ripping the furs off them in one ungraceful motion. Entani squeals out at the sudden cold, and Ontari laughs lightly as she sits up in the bed, her hair dishevelled and her braids a mess. Ontari slips from the bed and pads her way to the small table that sits in the corner of the tent, and Clarke finds herself smiling at the familiarity she sees, and she thinks she has missed this easiness, she thinks she has missed the months prior when little more than deciding what to fix next at the Mountain was her biggest issue.

“More warriors arrive,” Ontari says simply as her head follows the shadow of a column of horses that move past. “I do not know how Prince Roan holds the loyalty of so many.”

“Maybe we’ll find out later,” Clarke says as she rises and as she moves to stand next to Ontari.

“Perhaps,” Ontari finishes as she begins sorting through the clothes they are to wear.

“How’s your shoulder?” Clarke asks as she eyes the way Ontari holds it to her torso carefully.

“The mornings are worse,” Ontari says simply. “Stiff,” and she shrugs slightly.

Entani sits up then, and Clarke watches as the healer rubs a hand across her face as she squints in the morning light. But as the light shines against Entani’s stomach, Clarke’s eyes are drawn to the wound caused by their ambush, and she feels the grimace that pulls her lips slightly before Entani’s eyes meet hers.

“It is not so bad,” Entani shrugs as she looks down at her ribs, the scar still red and raw. 

“Here, Clarke,” Ontari says as she pulls on Clarke’s wrist as she holds out fresh clothes. “I am sure Prince Roan and the Commander wish to see us.”

And so Clarke smiles, takes the offered clothes, and strips what little she wears as Entani steals another few seconds lounging on the bed.

 

* * *

 

Clarke finds Gustus standing out front of Lexa’s tent, his eyes ever constant in their roaming of those that move past. Gustus spots her quickly though, and so he sends her a nod before pulling the tent flap open to reveal Roan already standing around the main table that dominates much of the tent’s interior.

Clarke ducks in, quickly followed by Torvun and Ontari, even Entani comes this time, her curiosity piqued as to what may happen, and what has happened in the days that have passed since Clarke’s capture and eventual return.

“Now that we are all here,” Lexa begins, and Clarke’s gaze snaps to her to see the woman standing at the head of the table, hands resting against the wooden edge as she stares at the large map strewn across the table top, models marking where Trikru forces must lie, others indicating where Azgeda forces lie in wait. “We may begin.”

Clarke smiles once as their eyes meet, but her gaze quickly moves to the others present, and she finds Shana standing close by, her hand resting behind her back, and Clarke is sure she holds her knife as she eyes the Azgeda before her. Gustus moves through the tent before taking a place by Lexa’s side. Indra stands close to Lexa at the head of the table as well, and Clarke sees the woman glance once from Ontari and Entani before her gaze settles back on Roan.

“So how is everything going to go down?” Clarke says as she comes to a stand by the table opposite Lexa. 

“We must move on Nia soon,” Lexa answers.

“And what exactly does that mean?” Clarke questions, and she feels Ontari’s unease at the way Lexa’s eyes harden. “Are you seriously thinking about attacking Azgeda?”

“We must do what we must,” Lexa begins.

“No,” and Clarke turns to face her fully. “We aren’t attacking Azgeda,” and Clarke crosses her arms. “Lets get things straight,” and she gestures around the table. “I didn’t refuse Nia’s orders just so we could throw Azgeda into a civil war,” and she gestures up and down her body. “I didn’t get captured, I didn’t suffer just so I could fight my own people,” and she turns to face Lexa. “We aren’t fighting my own people.”

“And how would you suggest we wrestle control of Azgeda from Nia?” Indra asks.

Clarke thinks for a moment then, and she glances once to Ontari whose gaze remains focused on the table, her eyes taking in the models and figures that spread out over the map.

“A distraction, just like the Mountain,” Clarke begins, and she sees Lexa nod quietly, and Clarke thinks the other woman lets her continue to voice her thoughts, lets her talk through the actions that run through her mind uninterrupted.

“I do not wish to be responsible for the deaths of Azgeda,” Roan says, his fingers tapping against the wood.

“Then it’s settled,” and Clarke looks to the Trikru who stand around her. “We don’t fight our own if we can help it.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Indra says, her eyes hardening as she meets the glares of Ontari and Entani both.

“Prince Roan will take his forces to the capital,” Lexa says simply. “Azgeda forces will not attack if Roan is seen to ride at the head of your forces.”

“And that’s the distraction?” Clarke asks. 

“Yes,” Lexa replies, and Lexa begins to walk around the table slowly, and Clarke watches the heads that turn and follow her movements as the woman’s gaze remains focused on the table and the map. “Prince Roan’s appearance will give any who approach pause. Azgeda will not attack,” and she pauses for a moment as she shares a glance with Gustus. “Coalition forces will be present, but less than the Azgeda,” she continues.

“So it looks like Azgeda is leading this?” Clarke asks. “And not a Coalition led attack?”

“Yes, Clarke,” Lexa answers.

“You’re planning on sending people into the capital, aren’t you?” Clarke questions as she glances once to Ontari. 

“Yes,” Lexa answers with a nod.

“And it’s not Roan because he’s needed for the distraction,” and again Clarke sees Lexa nod. “It’s me,” Clarke finishes with a sigh. 

Roan steps forward though, and Clarke lets his shadow sit across the table as he meets her gaze.

“I approve this plan,” he begins, and she sees him glance once to Ontari who remains quietly by her side. “You will lead the infiltration force,” he says.

“And what?” Clarke questions, her eyes narrowing as she feels his unspoken words begin to settle. “You want me to confront Nia by myself? You want me to—”

And she feels Ontari kick her foot under the table.

“You will make her surrender,” Roan says simply. 

“How?” Clarke asks as she glances over to Ontari who glowers, and to Entani who remains quiet as she takes in the conversation that flows back and forth.

“Many of her forces will meet me at the capital’s gates,” Roan says. “I am sure of it,” he preempts as Clarke’s eyebrows quirk together. 

“You’ve been planning behind my back,” Clarke says as she looks from Roan to Lexa, the easiness of how this plan had come together not lost on her.

“Yes,” Lexa says simply. 

“So I just follow orders?” Clarke sighs, and she can’t quite tell in this moment if she feels angry, exasperated, or simply just tired. 

“Yes,” and Roan’s voice hardens slightly, and Clarke knows it for the order it is now. “Echo and Silence will accompany you,” he says. “They will get you into the capital and from there you will have help.”

“What am I supposed to do once I bump into Nia?” Clarke asks.

“Someone will be in a position to assassinate her,” he answers. 

“And you trust whoever this someone is?” Clarke asks.

“Be respectful,” Ontari breathes out quietly, angrily.

“I do,” Roan shrugs.

“Enough to gamble my life on it?” 

“Yes,” Roan says. “And the lives of those I send with you.”

“Alright,” and Clarke rubs a hand across her eyes for a moment. “I get it, I’ve got no say in this,” and she sighs once more before her eyes flick over to Shana who smiles quietly from the side of the table. 

“You will succeed, Clarke,” Lexa says, and as their eyes meet, Clarke thinks she sees the smile that lives in her green gaze.

“I’m glad you’ve got faith in me,” Clarke answers with a roll of her eyes.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the meeting passes quickly, details over how best to approach Azgeda the main focus of discussion. And so, as the sun sits at its highest, Clarke finds herself lounging on a fallen tree as she takes a moment to think over the events that have transpired. She can’t quite tell whether she feels a sense of apprehension at the events that she knows will soon happen, and perhaps she thinks herself numbed to the danger, numbed to the gamble, to the risk and the reward. But as a bird catches her eye she pushes the thoughts away for the moment, the time she has left before things begin to spiral soon to expire. 

Clarke hears the footsteps though, and she feels her hand fall to the knife strapped to her thigh as she turns to the presence. Her eyes narrow for a moment before Costia’s form emerges from the trees, her own eyes tracing the shadows before they settle fully on Clarke.

Costia pauses a few paces from Clarke, and as she eyes her for a moment, Clarke feels herself unsure of what to say, the connection to Lexa they both share an awkward thing that exists between them. 

“May I sit?” Costia asks cautiously. 

“Yeah,” Clarke says as she moves over slightly, her lip worried between her teeth. 

“I am not disturbing?” Costia questions quietly.

“No,” and Clarke smiles at her slightly. “I’m just taking a break,” she finishes with a shrug.

Costia takes a seat besides Clarke, and Clarke watches for a moment as Costia’s thoughts move slowly, her mind clearly shifting through worries and truths. Clarke lets the silence linger though, and she is sure it must be difficult for Costia, must be awkward and uneasy for her. 

“Lexa still cares for you,” Clarke begins, her tongue wetting her lip slightly. 

“I died a long time ago,” Costia answers, her eyes focusing somewhere in the distance. 

Clarke finds herself not quite sure how to respond in this moment though, and so she simply shrugs awkwardly before she looks out into the trees, too. 

“She spoke of you once,” Clarke tries instead, and she isn’t so sure where her own thoughts turn, where her mind tries to take this conversation. 

“I am not angry, Clarke,” Costia says as she turns to face Clarke. “I am proud that Lexa did not break the Coalition. I am proud my death did not destroy her.”

“Hey,” Clarke says though, her hand almost reaching out to squeeze Costia’s arm. “You aren’t dead, ok?” and Clarke lets her eyes linger across Costia’s face. “I know it’s awkward right now, and I know we’re in the middle of a lot of stuff,” and Clarke gestures between them both before jerking her chin towards the north. “Once Nia’s dealt with we’ll all have time to just figure things out, ok?” 

Costia looks away though, and Clarke feels the sigh that leaves her lips as it pulls frustration forwards once more.

“I had never really thought about what it would be like to know Lexa had moved on,” Costia begins. “Perhaps I was foolish, perhaps I was naive,” and she pauses in thought. “Perhaps I was little more than a girl, too foolish to let go of a past lost to the cruelty of others,” and Costia meets Clarke’s gaze. “She kept me alive,” Costia shrugs. “Lexa gave me strength to survive another day, to keep living.”

“Hey,” and Clarke reaches forwards, lets her hand wrap around Costia’s fur bound wrist. 

“Of all the people Lexa could have bonded with,” and Costia smiles sadly at her. “I know you will give her strength,” Costia finishes.

And Clarke can’t quite think of much more to say, Costia’s morose thoughts, her dark thoughts leaving Clarke unsure and uneasy. And so Clarke tries to think of a way to change the subject, to bring a lighter mood to Costia’s mind, and as she takes in the clothes the woman wears, she finds them to be heavier furs, lighter in colour, more whites and greys than the browns and greens of Trikru.

“It looks like Azgeda rubbed off on you,” Clarke tries to joke as she gestures to the colours. “We aren’t so different,” she finishes with an awkward smile.

But Costia meets her gaze once more, and Clarke thinks she sees the shifting of her eyes, the fading of life and the blankness that creeps into existence.

“I am sorry, Clarke,” Costia says.

And Clarke’s eyes narrow for a moment as Costia’s words begin to sink in, and Clarke feels her eyebrows furrow, her mouth begin to open. 

But she feels the prickle, she feels the sting and the bite in her thigh. And so she looks down to see a small dart sticking out of her leg and Costia’s hand loosening its grasp as the woman begins to rise, her eyes casting one quick look over her shoulder. 

“I am happy that Lexa found someone like you, Clarke,” Costia says sadly. “Tell her I am sorry.”

And the last thing Clarke sees before she loses consciousness is Costia’s body as it fades into the distance.


	26. Chapter 26

Lexa reclines back in her throne, her mind tired, her thoughts worried. She glances once at the table, at the models that decorate it, and the lines drawn into the map. She follows the flowing of a river that splits the lands, and she traces the trees as they spread out through Trikru territory. And she thinks herself tired in this moment, she feels the pull of sleep as it itches in the back of her mind. 

She can’t quite figure out, can’t quite discern just how to act now that Costia has returned. 

“Jani was furious when she realised you had left,” Shana says quietly, and Lexa looks up to see her standing dutifully in the corner of her tent. 

“She did not cause issue?” Lexa asks.

“She did not,” Shana shrugs. “But she was angry,” and Shana looks away in thought for a moment. “She worries,” Shana finishes, and Lexa knows the handmaiden speaks of conclaves, of her not returning to Polis.

And so Lexa sighs, rubs a hand across her face and settles into her throne more fully as her fingers begin to drum against the armrest.

“Costia is not dead,” Shana begins once more, and Lexa knows the statement to be a question, to be an opening of the door to discussion, and she knows she could just as easily dismiss the words, only acknowledge them for a simple voicing of thought if she so wished.

“She is not,” Lexa begins, and perhaps talking of things would help, would let her mind settle on what to do, on how to proceed.

Shana begins to move through the tent though, and Lexa watches as the handmaiden begins to straighten her knives where they lie across a smaller table, she watches as Shana’s finger tests the sharpness of her sword, the woman’s eyes careful as they trace the scratches and signs of wear that linger across the weapon.

“You care for Clarke,” Shana says simply as she looks up to meet Lexa’s gaze. 

“I do,” and Lexa feels the tightness in her throat at the admission.

“You care for Costia,” Shana says more quietly.

“I do,” and Lexa looks away, and she finds herself thinking of how she had felt so ready to throw Clarke aside in that moment, when the memories of Costia had come crashing into her mind, she thinks of how much it had hurt to realise the woman had been taken from her, of how much anguish she had felt tear into her chest as she cradled what she had thought to be Costia’s head in her arms. 

“You are not sure how to react,” Shana says quietly as she comes to a pause in front of Lexa.

“I am not,” and Lexa meets the younger woman’s gaze for just a moment before she looks away.

But Shana kneels before her, and Lexa watches as Shana closes a hand over her fingers as they continue to drum against the wood. 

“You are too hard on yourself, Heda,” Shana says. 

“I am the Commander,” Lexa replies with a shrug. 

“That does not mean you must deny your heart,” Shana counters confidently. 

Lexa holds Shana’s gaze for a long moment then, and she feels the pressure begin to build in her temples, she feels the frustrations and anger that seems ever present, and she knows she senses the uncertainty still.

“I was ready to cast Clarke aside,” she begins. “I was selfish,” and she sees Shana think over her words quietly. “I did not even think of Clarke in that moment.”

“Everyone is allowed to be selfish sometimes, Heda,” Shana says.

“Even the Commander?” and Lexa sees Shana smile for a moment. 

“Even the Commander,” and Shana looks up in thought for just a second before her gaze meets Lexa’s once more. “You would not be a good leader if you did not know the struggles of your own people,” Shana shrugs. 

“They were both willing to step aside,” Lexa says quietly. “Costia told me not to discard Clarke,” and Lexa squeezes the armrest of her throne. “And Clarke had already accepted that our bond had ended.”

“It is complicated,” Shana says. 

“Yes,” Lexa agrees simply. 

“Nothing good has ever been easy, Heda,” Shana says from where she remains knelt on her knees before Lexa.

“I lost Costia so long ago,” Lexa says though, and she closes her eyes for an instant, for long enough that she can wrestle the tears behind her mask once more. “I thought I would never get over the pain,” and she feels Shana shift quietly, she feels the woman squeeze her hand just once more. “But I did, I accepted it,” and Lexa takes a steadying breath. “But Clarke,” and Lexa grits her teeth briefly. “She never pried, never tried to replace Costia, she never asked for more than my company, she never intruded,” and Lexa shakes her head slowly. “I do not deserve either of them,” and Lexa thinks the truth of her words bitter and twisted.

“Clarke cares for you, Heda,” Shana says. “Costia cares for you, too,” and Shana shakes her head and cuts Lexa’s worry off. 

But still, “what should I do, Shana?” Lexa asks, and she meets the younger woman’s tender gaze with her own worried one, and as their eyes meet, Lexa thinks she still sees the youthful roundness in Shana’s eyes, and Lexa knows she can’t help but to recall years past when Shana had first arrived under her care, had first began to train under the older handmaidens.

But Shana smiles and she lets it linger across her lips as she takes the time to think over Lexa’s question, over Lexa’s confusion and despair.

“I can not make that choice for you, Heda,” Shana says, and Lexa sees her smile at the frown she feels forming across her own face. “But what does your heart say?” 

And as Shana’s words find their way through Lexa’s mind, she can’t help but to think of the times spent on the side of the Mountain, when little more than quiet words were passed between her and Clarke, when little more than a hand held, and the faintness of shared glances was all that was needed to set her mind ablaze with thoughts of peace, of rest, of not quite needing to rise so early in the mornings to deal with yet another issue the ambassadors were sure to raise. But Lexa thinks of Costia, too, she thinks of the way Costia had paused in the same place that Clarke had stood, she thinks of the way Costia had remained at arms length, she thinks of the way Costia had once laughed heartily, had loved, had lived and breathed through the halls of Polis tower. 

And perhaps it’s bittersweet, perhaps she feels herself not so deserving of either. 

But perhaps she should be selfish. If only for once in her life. 

And isn’t that what Shana had said? That to be a good leader is to know your people, to know their trials, their challenges, their pain and to treat their needs as her own?

“Thank you, Shana,” Lexa says as she lets her fingers relax from her armrest, Shana’s hand still holding hers gently. 

“I merely do what my duty demands of me,” Shana says, and Lexa knows from the way Shana ducks her head slightly that she feels embarrassed, feels bashful in this moment.

And so Lexa lets her hand turn under Shana’s, she lets her fingers slip between Shana’s own, and she lets her hand return the steady pressure Shana gives.

“I am proud of you, Shana,” Lexa says quietly.

“Thank you, He—”

But Shana’s head snaps up at the sounds of running feet, and Lexa watches as the woman spins on her knees so that she covers Lexa’s body with her own as she begins drawing her knife, her eyes glued to the tent’s entrance.

And Lexa hears Gustus bark out a warning for whoever approaches, she hears hissed words, breathless words.

“Heda,” and Gustus pokes his head through the tent, and from the way his eyes dart around in search of her, from the way his expression shifts from unease to pain to confusion, Lexa thinks she knows what must have happened.

“Clarke and Anya have been attacked,” and Gustus grimaces as Lexa begins to rise, as her hands fist by her side. “Costia is missing.”

 

* * *

 

Costia’s eyes squint through the harsh glare of the setting sun, and as her feet continue to track through the iced rock underfoot, she feels the tension and regret burning through her mind. But she knows attacking Anya and Clarke was required, she knows Anya would not have allowed her to slip away. And she knows once found, that Anya and Clarke will slow down whoever comes after her, will require for both women to be seen to before her tracks are followed.

And she knows it a necessary distraction. At least so that she can get far enough ahead that her footprints melt and fade and drift away before her disappearance is noted.

And so Costia pulls her gaze from the horizon, she lets her eyes track the hoof prints in the snow, and she lets the bow in her hands rest comfortably, the weight of the sword strapped to her back ever familiar and a welcomed presence. She draws in a large lungful of air then, and as she sweeps her hair back she thinks she hears the neighing of a horse in the distance.

And It’s at this moment, when she finds herself doing perhaps the last stupid thing she will, that she realises she’s never quite liked the snow, never really liked the harshness of the sleet as it batters her body, or the chill that burns her lungs and numbs her fingers. Even the glare of the sun seems worse this far north, the glint of it bouncing off the snow around her enough to cause her to squint and feel vulnerable in the vastness of the great white. And she thinks it funny that her last breath won’t be amongst the trees, won’t be amongst the warmth of the forest.

But she comes to a small snow dune, and as she glances behind her, the faint outlines of trees barely noticeable through the haze, she thinks she feels that pang of regret once more. Her ears pick up the sounds of the horse again, and so she stalks forward quietly, her eyes turning back before her, fingers brushing against the arrows in her quiver as she pulls one free and knocks it to her bow.

Costia crests the hill then, and as she looks down below her she sees the lonely figure that makes camp in a small rocky outcrop. A fire burns quietly, and she sees the huddled form of a person who hugs the fire, the flame only just enough to keep her target warm.

She waits for another moment, for long enough that she has time to reconsider her actions, to reconsider what her next few days may be, but she knows she has not spent time in captivity to tuck tail and run, and so she sighs, forces her feet forwards and begins the haphazard walk down the snow dune, her steps louder now, her eyes still trained on the figure that looks up at her approach. Costia sees the figure stand though, and she sees them draw a weapon and so she feels the creak in her bow string as, she too, readies her weapons, the arrow aimed squarely at the person.

“I know you have been following me,” she hears over the distance, and she sees the person begin to move behind a larger rock.

“I need your help,” she says as she pauses at the edge of the rocky outcrop. 

“You need my help?” she hears.

“Yes,” and she shrugs as she begins to lower the bow, her gaze still focused on the glint of the sword held towards her.

“Why?” comes the response.

“You are a royal guard,” she shrugs. “You will get me close enough to kill her.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke feels the burn in her thigh before she registers that her mind wakes. It takes her a moment longer and then she sits, her eyes bleary, her head aching and spinning. She finds herself in a tent, the candles burning brightly and a chill seeping in from outside. Underneath her are rough furs, their colour muted muddy reds and browns that carry the slightest hint of medicines, pastes and salves, and she knows she finds herself in a healer’s tent. Her eyes land on Anya who lies in a small bed besides her, the unconscious woman grunting in her stupor as a small bead of sweat trickles down her forehead.

But Clarke’s head turns to the sounds of a gasp and she finds Abby already rising from a seat by a table not so far from her. Clarke takes only a second to eye the dishevelled mess of hair that crowns Abby’s face and the shadows that live under Abby’s eyes.

“Clarke,” Abby croaks as she strides to Clarke’s side in only a few rapid steps before kneeling down besides her. 

“Hey,” Clarke says as she tries to sit further, only for Abby’s hand to push her back down onto the bed. “What happened?” Clarke asks as she tries to recall what led to her being unconscious.

“You were attacked,” Abby says, her eyes trailing down Clarke’s body. 

“I—” but Clarke trails off in thought, her face scrunches in concentration. “Costia.”

“She’s missing,” Abby whispers, her eyes glancing once to Anya who lets out a low growl as her body begins to wake.

“I need to see the Commander,” Clarke winces as her head begins to throb lightly.

“She’s out looking for whoever attacked,” Abby whispers. “She won’t be back for a while.”

“No,” and Clarke shakes her head for a moment despite the pain. “Costia was the one who attacked us,” and Clarke gestures to Anya, and she is sure Costia rendered the other woman unconscious so that she could slip away. “She’s about to get herself killed.”

“You aren’t doing anything,” Abby says sternly, her eyes hardening in the light as she leans over Clarke. 

“M—”

“No,” Abby reinforces. “Stay,” and she pushes down on Clarke’s shoulder again.

Mother and daughter glare at each other for just a moment longer before Abby sighs, her hand easing off Clarke’s shoulder.

“I’m glad you’re ok,” Abby says softly, and from the way Abby purses her lips and looks down, Clarke knows she talks of more than just her recent unconsciousness.

“Yeah,” Clarke says. “Me too,” and she shrugs slightly as Abby pulls the furs up her body.

“I was so worried,” Abby says. “When we were told you had been taken,” and Abby looks away, bites her lip and Clarke thinks she sees the barest quiver in her mother’s chin. “I’m happy you’re ok,” Abby shrugs. “Wells wants to see you, too,” Abby continues after a pause. “I’ll go get him.”

And Clarke watches as Abby rises and begins to turn, but perhaps due to recent events, Clarke thinks she should say more, maybe even do more, to bridge the gap between them both.

“Hey,” and Clarke reaches out and grasps Abby’s wrist. “I—” but Clarke feels the words pause in her throat, she feels them shift awkwardly on her tongue. 

“I know,” Abby says quietly, her lips smiling just for a moment. “I understand.”

“Thank you,” Clarke says instead.

And Abby smiles just a touch more freely before she squeezes Clarke’s hand. 

“I’ll get Wells, but get some rest for the moment, Doctor’s orders,” she finishes as she begins to slip out of the tent.

And so Clarke grunts out quietly as her thigh protests the slightest motion, whatever poison Costia had used leaving the wound throbbing and raw.

“She was furious when she found out you were taken,” Anya says, and Clarke turns to see the older woman eyeing her for a measured moment, her eyes still somewhat unfocused.

“She was?” Clarke asks.

“Yes,” Anya shrugs. “She demanded to speak to Heda,” Anya scoffs.

“She didn’t insult her, did she?” Clarke asks as she worries her lip briefly.

“Heda would not punish your mother even if she did,” Anya grunts out.

“Oh,” and Clarke frowns for a moment before realisation begins to dawn on her, or perhaps not quite realisation given the last conversation she had had with Lexa, but yet, she feels the words sink in slowly, surely. 

“Yes,” Anya says. “Oh,” and Clarke is sure the other woman’s eyes roll fiercely. 

“Are you ok?” Clarke asks as she rolls over slightly, her hand tucking under her head as she looks to Anya.

“I am fine,” Anya says simply, her eyes looking up into the tent’s ceiling, the furs and cloth draped overhead swinging lazily in what little breeze makes it through the small cracks in the fabric.

“She’s going to get herself killed,” Clarke whispers.

“Yes,” Anya repeats. “Costia is a fool.”

“She wants revenge,” Clarke says.

“That does not mean she is not a fool,” Anya repeats.

“We were a distraction, weren’t we?” and Clarke watches as Anya’s eyes close for a moment, her hands fisting by her side.

“Yes,” Anya answers. “She will be deep into Azgeda territory now,” and Anya glares more harshly at a candle that burns close by.

“We’ll find her,” Clarke says, “we’ll get her back safely,” but as Anya meets her gaze, Clarke thinks she sees doubt and anguish already beginning to take hold within Anya’s eyes.

Anya’s mouth begins to open once more, but Clarke hears the approach of feet and then she turns to see the tent’s flap pulled aside to reveal Wells standing in the entrance.

“Clarke,” he begins as he steps forward.

“Hey,” and Clarke glances briefly at Anya before back to Wells.

“We were worried,” Wells says as he walks further into the tent. 

“I’m ok,” Clarke shrugs awkwardly as she rolls onto her side.

“That’s good,” he smiles from where he stands. 

Clarke watches as Wells sighs heavily before sitting on the edge of the table, his legs beginning to swing slightly as he lets the silence stretch for a comfortable moment.

“I’m sorry about my dad,” Wells says as he meets her gaze again. “I feel like everything that’s happened is his fault,” he sighs once more and a hand rubs against his face. “And I know I’m not responsible, and that he’s an adult, but still, I can’t help but to feel responsible,” and he glances once to Anya as she snorts quietly. “At least a little responsible, you know?” 

“Yeah,” and Clarke tries to smile a little less painfully. “I get you,” and she thinks of the times when she had felt responsible for her people, for Skaikru, and for Azgeda. “I know how it feels.”

“The only one responsible for his own actions is himself,” Anya says simply, and Clarke sees Wells smile a little sad thing.

“I guess you’re right,” he says. “I’ll let you guys get some rest. We’re moving out tomorrow morning.”

 

* * *

 

“You wish to kill Kwin Nia?” Teril asks as his eyes widen slightly. 

“Yes,” Costia answers, her fingers still brushing against the feathers of her knocked arrow, despite it aimed at the ground. “And I wish for you to aid me.”

“And why would I do that?” he asks. 

“You work with Heda, and Prince Roan,” Costia says simply. “Do not deny it. You let me escape, and all other evidence points to that being the only reason why you have been let free.”

“And you think I can get you close enough to Nia for you to kill her?” Teril asks as he begins to sit back down by the fire.

“Yes,” Costia says simply. “Nia left you behind because she trusted you to oversee Clarke’s execution,” and Costia raises her chin. “You are trusted.”

Costia watches as Teril thinks over her words, and as he does, she begins to move slowly forward and towards the fire, the cold of the setting sun not lost on her.

“Why not wait until the Commander comes with her armies?” Teril asks as he continues to watch her sit down before him.

“I want revenge,” she says simply. 

“It is a suicide mission,” Teril counters. 

“I know,” Costia says, and she thinks over what has happened in her life in her last few years. “I resigned myself to death years ago,” and she sees Teril’s eyes harden slightly. “I choose to face it on my terms.”

“I have my own mission,” Teril begins after a moment, and she sees him prepare himself for whatever arguments he thinks she may throw his way. 

“I underst—”

“I will not jeopardise my own mission for your foolish gamble,” he continues.

“I know,” she answers.

“I am to stay by Nia’s side and feed Roan information on her actions,” he continues. 

“I und—”

“I can not be discovered,” he cuts in. 

“I said I understand,” Costia snaps. 

“And do you?” Teril asks easily. “I will help you into the capital,” he says. “But if we are discovered, if we are caught then I will treat you as my prisoner and I will hand you over to Nia,” and he leans forward, his eyes gleaming in the light of the dancing flame. “You will be tortured,” and Costia thinks she sees his eyes turn cold, turn empty and guarded. “You will experience more pain than you can imagine,” and he stares. “You will be humiliated, you will be ruined. And you will die a slow death.”

And Costia clenches her jaw, and she feels the beat of her heart as it begins to pump the anger through her blood.

“I understand.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke wakes to the sounds of shallow breathing and to a presence lingering close by. Her eyes open and it takes them a moment to adjust to the dimmed light that signals night has settled fully. She glances over her shoulder to see Anya still sleeping, scowl firmly in place. 

It takes Clarke a moment longer to realise a weight rests in her hand, and that it warms her palm slightly. But as she turns back to the presence she finds Lexa sitting in a chair close by, legs tucked under her body as she leans on a hand. Clarke feels the slightest of smiles begin to form as she eyes the way Lexa has woven their fingers together, the way her hair fans out around her face and the way a rough fur is draped over her shoulders in her sleep. 

But Clarke thinks her waking must disturb Lexa’s sleep because she sees the woman frown slightly, and she feels the hand holding hers squeeze for a moment before Lexa’s eyes open and settle on her face.

“Clarke,” Lexa whispers groggily, her eyes blinking away the sleep.

“Hey,” Clarke answers back through the quiet. “How late is it?” Clarke says, her gaze peering past Lexa briefly.

“It is early,” Lexa answers. “I returned not long ago,” and Lexa sighs quietly as she sits more fully in the chair, a hand rubbing across her face.

“You don’t have to get up,” Clarke adds quickly.

“It is too late for that,” Lexa shrugs as she leans closer, eyes just once flicking to Anya’s sleeping form.

“Did you find anything?” Clarke finds herself asking.

“Her trail faded too soon for us to follow,” Lexa says, her eyes looking away for a moment.

“She’ll be ok,” and Clarke tries to reassure Lexa, she tries to soothe the worry she sees in the frown that graces Lexa’s face.

Clarke watches as Lexa worries her lip and as she grinds her teeth for a long moment, and Clarke thinks that Lexa must be considering events, must be thinking of things she has done, or things she could have done differently. Or perhaps she thinks Lexa merely worries because that is what she does.

“I am sorry, Clarke,” Lexa begins as her eyes meet Clarke’s once more.

“For what?” and Clarke grimaces slightly as she tries to sit, only for Lexa to push her down gently.

“Costia,” and Lexa sighs, looks up for a moment as she tries to settle whatever moves through her mind. “When she returned all I could think of, all I could consider was the pain her death had caused me,” and she sees Lexa steady her breathing before she meets her gaze once more. “The only thoughts that filled my mind was of embracing her, of welcoming her into my heart once more,” and Lexa pulls her hand free, her fingers clenching tightly. “I was selfish.”

And Clarke thinks over what Lexa has said, of what she has done, of the things she has experienced.

“You loved her,” Clarke says simply, and she sees Lexa’s eyes soften slightly, her lips already opening to voice a thought, to interject. “Wait,” and Clarke lifts her hand to pause Lexa’s words. “You loved her,” and Clarke smiles. “I’m not angry or jealous or frustrated or anything like that,” and Clarke lets her hand fall slowly as Lexa nods at her words. “But I know you loved her, and I know she loved you,” and Clarke doesn’t think she feels much more than a warmth fill her in this moment as Lexa remains quietly by her side, the gentle flickering of a candle dancing a shadow across the worried woman’s face. “You’re allowed to be selfish, Lexa,” and Clarke tries to reach out with her words, with the way she meets Lexa’s gaze. “You’re only human.”

“I do not deserve what you offer, Clarke,” Lexa says quietly. 

“We deserve what we’re willing to fight for, Lexa,” Clarke says as she leans up on an elbow. “What you had with Costia?” and Clarke reaches out with her hand once more, she lets her fingers entwine with Lexa’s. “We aren’t there, not yet,” and she sees Lexa nod slowly, carefully, fearfully. “And I wouldn’t want to replace her, I could never replace her,” and Clarke pulls Lexa’s hand closer, she brings them to her lips. “But if you’ll have me, I’ll fight for it,” and Clarke kisses Lexa’s fingers gently, she holds them tenderly, and she meets Lexa’s gaze with a confidence she feels building ever so firmly within her heart. “I’ll fight for you. For us.”

Lexa holds Clarke’s gaze for a quiet moment, and Clarke watches as thoughts drift through the other woman’s mind, but Clarke doesn’t quite worry herself with those thoughts, if only because she doesn’t think Lexa considers who holds her heart, who is better for her, who may give her happiness. And as Clarke traces the angle of Lexa’s nose and the way a shadow curves against a cheek, she thinks Lexa merely considers the pain and hurt she may have caused, may continue to cause in whatever future awaits them.

But Lexa smiles with her eyes, and her fingers brush Clarke’s lips slightly before she nods just once. Just enough that Clarke knows whatever battles await them both will be fought side by side.

 

* * *

 

Ontari barges into the tent the following morning with a glaring at Abby who sits close by Clarke’s side. 

“Clarke,” Ontari says simply. 

“Ontari,” Clarke answers with a groan as Abby continues to inspect her thigh.

“They would not let me see you last night,” and Ontari crouches down besides Abby, the woman’s eyes tracing the swelling of the small wound.

“It’s ok,” Clarke smiles at her. “I was asleep for most of the night,” and she watches as Ontari eyes the wound. “How’s Entani and Torvun?” 

“Good,” Ontari says. “Worried. They are packing the tent,” and Ontari reaches forward to brush a finger against Clarke’s wound only for Abby to slap her hand away.

“No fighting,” Clarke says as she sees Ontari’s eyes widen in shock before a snarl begins gracing her face. “We’re leaving soon?” 

“Yes,” Ontari says.

"Ok," and Abby rises, hand already lifting Ontari by the elbow. "Off you go," and Clarke sees Ontari begin to protest. "Clarke needs to get ready," Abby finishes sternly. 

"It's ok, Ontari," Clarke says lightly. "I'll see you in a bit."

 

* * *

 

The guardhouse. Third outer wall, the one with the crack that runs through the largest stone set in its base. 

That is what Teril had said was the least noticed guardhouse. 

Costia pauses in the shadows as her eyes move from person to person who moves about in this early hour. And perhaps she curses Teril’s aloofness, his ease in which he had discarded her off his horse with merely a direction and a description of what she searched for. But she knows that she knows how to blend into crowds, how to go about unseen, unnoticed, unrecognised to all but a select few. And so Costia takes in a steady breath, she steels her mind and she steps out from the shadows, bucket and broom in hand, and she begins to step her way over the exposed paving.

She passes an Azgeda warrior, a woman, eyes kind in the morning sun, hair a dirty red that crackles in the intensity of the sun streaked snow. She thinks the woman has a second, too, because she sees the woman’s lips lift up at the corners as the young Azgeda boy in front of her swings his sword in a practiced, tired, determined arc before he loses his footing and falls onto his behind, the sounds of the woman chuckling reaching Costia’s ears.

And she thinks it must be regret. She thinks it regret that fills her heart as she passes another two warriors who glance at her once before she bows her head lowly, feet still taking her forward. And she knows it must be a regret that so many have suffered under Nia’s cruelty, under her ambition, under her want to prove Azgeda supremacy by destroying all those that would oppose her. 

But Costia knows she feels the spark of hope that fills her mind as she imagines the way Lexa must look in battle, the way Lexa must look as she settles disputes and arguments and listens to ambassadors and clans as they voice their concerns, their anger, only to be calmed by Lexa’s deftness, her tact, her ability to negotiate, to push when needed, to share when required. And perhaps even to threaten, just a little, when she wishes. For Costia knows herself not so foolish as to think the Coalition without its flaws. 

But a Coalition in peace is something she knows to be preferable to a Coalition in war. 

And so she pushes against the door, and she steps inside easily, smiles to another guard who looks up, hand falling to a knife before recognising the servant clothes she wears, his hand already settling back to the plate of food before him.

“The dirty weapons are in the third room,” he gestures, and Costia nods once before bowing her head, feet already taking her down the lone corridor.

Her eyes trace the many weapons that line the walls, spears and swords and war hammers and battle axes. And she finds herself cursing Teril, if only because he had taken her weapons, had insisted that if they were caught, then it would look better if the prisoner was not also armed. But she knows he speaks truthfully, and so perhaps she only resents the way in which her actions have played out. But only a little. 

Costia glances over her shoulder at the warrior, and she sees that he begins sharpening his blade, his attention turned to the open window as he watches the young second begin to spar with the warrior, and Costia hears him chuckle as she turns back to the weapons before her. 

And her eyes fall to a bow, its size similar to what she had brought with her, and so she checks just once more behind her before she slips the bowstring off with little more than a quiet grunt. She tucks it into her pocket then, and as she pulls out the frayed, torn and beaten bowstring out of her other pocket she can’t help but to at least be a little thankful that Indra had once insisted she know how to use a bow despite her insistence that the spear would be her weapon of choice. If only because assassinating Nia with a spear would be near impossible. 

“Hey,” Costia calls out, and she sees the guard turn to look at her, his eyebrows quirking together. “This bow is worn,” and she shakes the bow in front of her face, the swapped bowstring loosened and fraying before her gaze. “Do you wish for me to fix it?”

And the guard curses quietly as he stands and moves to her, his eyes taking in the ruined bow in her hands. 

“Tammen will be angry,” the man sighs. “This was his favourite for practice,” and he shrugs as he takes the bow and turns it over in his hands. “Yes, fix it,” and he hands it back to her. 

Costia smiles, bows her head as he walks away, and then she places the bow against the wall, and as she glances over her shoulder once more, she snatches just a lone arrow from a quiver, if only because whether she misses or strikes true, one shot will be all she has time to take.

And so Costia picks up the broom again, dips it into the bucket, and begins to mop. If only because she has many hours to kill before her time comes to an end.


	27. Chapter 27

Costia pulls herself over the lip of the building, and as she rolls onto her back she takes in a large lungful of air as she lets her arms rest. It only takes her a moment longer to catch her breath before she sits up, her eyes carefully taking in the people that move not far below her. And she isn’t so sure whether she finds the way Azgeda buildings don’t reach up into the sky much more than two or three stories to be a benefit or a detriment to the shot she plans to take. If only because its direction can be traced quickly despite the advantage of being closer to her target.

She glances into the sky to see the sun beginning its final descent and so she turns her gaze to the streets to see Azgeda warriors beginning to approach from the distance. And Costia smiles, just a little. She smiles because she thinks Nia predictable, she knows the woman’s habits after years spent in service to her, and so she knows Nia will walk down the main street as the sun sets, she knows Nia enjoys to see her people, enjoys knowing that her people prosper. 

And Costia can’t help but to scoff angrily, frustratedly, at the fact that despite Nia’s words, despite her insistence that she always does what is best for Azgeda, that Nia is willing to throw all that away in a war that would ravage Azgeda. But perhaps Costia doesn’t quite care so much. At least not much past simply wanting the woman dead.

Costia pulls the last of the bread from her pocket, and as she bites into it she lets her thoughts drift to happier times. But she sighs, she pushes the thoughts away before they can sway her actions, and she pockets the bread for now. Costia watches as the procession continues down the main street, and as they approach she sees people gather on the sides of the street, many bowing heads, many waving as Nia passes, and Costia knows she sees the enthusiasm and joy in the Azgeda that gather. And she knows she can’t blame them, if only because most aren’t privy to Nia’s actions, aren’t allowed to know what Nia does to ensure Azgeda remains strong. 

And so Costia runs a finger over the arrow head, and she tests the point slightly, and she knows all she will have is one shot. She knows as soon as she kneels to fire, that she will silhouette herself on the not so tall building she sits atop, and she also knows that whether her arrow strikes or misses, her chance will be over and that she will need to flee. 

She knocks the arrow then, and as she begins to draw it back slowly she lets the creak of the bowstring bring familiarity and warmth to her mind. Costia lets her eyes focus on Nia as she approaches, and as the woman continues to move down the street Costia thinks she recognises Teril who stands close by the woman’s side. But yet, as Costia peers down at her target, she thinks Teril stands just a little further away than usual, just enough that she thinks she sees an opening, just barely enough that many wouldn’t perceive a change in his position. And she thinks she even sees his eyes darting from window to window to roof to hidden shadow. And perhaps she feels sorry for him, just a little.

Costia draws her bow fully, she lets the pull in her arms stretch, and she lets the slight twitching in her fingers find a rhythm, her mind recognising the pattern in their slight tremble. 

And so Costia rises on her knees, the sun blazing in her hair as she raises the bow and as she sights down the arrow. She breathes in just once, just enough that her lungs fill and that her beating heart shallows enough that her arm holds true. And she sees Teril’s eyes flash, she sees him squint up at her movement, and she sees another guard’s head snap up at her.

And then she releases.

 

* * *

 

Walking through the ranks of Azgeda warriors seems odd for Clarke. Perhaps it’s because she feels the absence of her pelt and skull, its whereabouts unknown to her since Nia had taken her captive. Maybe it’s because the Azgeda who look at her in this moment share in a secret, in a desire of Azgeda to not be lead into another pointless war. Or, Clarke thinks, they look at her strangely because she walks besides Roan as an equal, or as much of an equal as she could be. 

Ontari stands close by her side, Torvun shadowing her steps as Entani follows behind them. Echo walks close to Roan, too, the assassin’s gaze careful as she takes in the movements of those around them. 

But Clarke sees Lexa’s tent spring up through the parting warriors, and she sees Gustus at its entrance, the man’s eyes constantly roaming from face to face before his gaze lands on the approaching Azgeda. 

They come to a pause and Gustus takes only a moment to survey them before he pulls the tent flap open to reveal Lexa at the head of her war table, Indra and Anya already standing around it. Clarke even sees Wells and Kane standing on one side, Bellamy just behind them. And as Clarke follows Roan into the tent she sees warriors from Broadleaf and Glowing forest raise their heads to the newcomers before their gazes turn back to the map laid out for all to see.

“Now that we are all present,” and Clarke meets Lexa’s gaze for just a moment. “We will discuss how we plan to remove Nia from the throne.”

And so Clarke scratches at a healing wound as she comes to a pause by the side of the table.

“I see Broadleaf and Glowing Forest have provided warriors,” Roan begins simply, his head nodding to two women who stand before him. “Many thanks.”

“We do it for Trikru,” one of the women says. “Not for Azgeda.”

“For Trikru or for Azgeda,” and Roan shrugs. “You aid us all the same.”

“Yes,” the other says as she nods his way.

“No other clans send help?” Roan asks Lexa.

“More warriors will arrive in the coming days,” Lexa answers. “But they will take some time,” and she turns her gaze to the map for a moment. “They will only cross over into Azgeda lands if we call for aid,” and she gestures to the Skaikru who stand close by. “They will help us communicate, and I do not wish to antagonise Azgeda more than is needed in whatever conflict is soon to come.”

“A sensible decision,” Roan agrees.

“And so it is decided?” one of the women says. “We simply march on Azgeda?”

“Yes,” Lexa says. “With the aid of Skaikru tech we can cause enough distractions that Wanheda and her warriors will slip inside the city and force Nia to kneel or suffer death.”

“She would not kneel, Heda,” the younger of the women says. 

“No, I suspect not,” and Lexa meets Clarke’s gaze evenly.

“I have warriors in place to aid in her capture,” Roan adds. “Wanheda will not be alone once she is inside the capital.”

“But if things go wrong?” Kane asks as he looks worriedly at Clarke.

“Nia has kept much of what has happened a secret,” Roan begins. “Many do not know of what she has done and that will give our forces an advantage once inside the capital.”

“And you have faith in Wanheda?” one of the women asks. 

“Yes,” Roan says, his eyes meeting hers.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the meeting passes quickly, and Clarke follows the discussion of how best to approach confronting whatever forces will meet them. But it comes to an end after a while, and Lexa nods to the Broadleaf and Glowing Forest warriors as they duck out of the tent before being followed by Kane and Wells, both smiling at Clarke before they exit behind Bellamy.

“So I get into the capital, I confront Nia?” Clarke asks.

“Yes,” Lexa answers simply. 

“You make it sound easy,” Clarke says.

“Not easy, Clarke,” Lexa counters. “But it will be simple.”

Clarke’s eyes roll then, and she thinks she senses the lifting of Lexa’s lips.

“I will send Echo and Silence and a few others with you,” Roan says. “But the force will be small.”

“I will be able to aid Wanheda through the capital, Prince Roan,” Torvun says as he steps forward.

“Good,” and Roan looks from Clarke and those with her before back to Lexa. “Are there any other questions, Heda?”

“No,” and Lexa nods. “The plan is sound.” 

“Very well,” and Roan returns the nod as he glances back at Clarke.

And so Roan bows his head before turning and moving towards the tent. Clarke lingers for a moment longer, and she nods to Ontari who sends her a questioning look before following Roan out. And as Clarke looks back to Lexa she smiles briefly, her thoughts turning to Costia. 

“We’ll find Costia,” Clarke says before she ducks out of the tent, too.

 

* * *

 

Clarke moves easily with the swaying of the horse, and as her fingers grip at the reins she tries to push the sting from where her nails remain torn from her mind. Her thoughts continue to drift from scenario to scenario though, and she can’t help but to feel worried at the swelling of numbers she had seen as she slipped away from the camp. Broadleaf and Glowing Forest warriors had been amongst the trees, and she had recognised some from her time at the Mountain, and she thinks Lexa had anticipated an all out war, or a wide ranging conflict from how quickly the forest clans had provided warriors. But she thinks Roan didn’t care so much, or perhaps had already come to terms with what may come to pass. 

And so she glances over her shoulder and smiles at Ontari who rides easily behind her as Torvun and Entani follow. Jenma, Bronat and Leeton come, too, the Northern Azgeda eyeing the snow around them with a keen sense of anticipation. But Clarke’s gaze falls to Silence and Echo who ride close together, hushed words shared between both assassins as they discuss whatever plans or contingencies they think they may need.

But Clarke thinks of Costia in this moment, too. She wonders what Costia may be doing, whether she has arrived at the capital, whether she has been captured or killed. Clarke hopes that Costia’s death and lifeless body does not await her though, if only for Lexa’s sake. And maybe, as she thinks over what Costia’s return means, she finds it somewhat odd that she doesn’t feel an anger at Lexa’s actions, at her words and choices. But Clarke thinks she couldn’t blame her, not for something so confronting as an old love that was once dead. If only because Clarke knows what it feels like to be responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people, if only because Clarke knows what it feels like to be sentenced to death for only wanting to do what she thought was right for her people.

And it puts things into perspective. The fragility of ego and the swiftness of the passage of time. And she thinks of her father, of her mother’s part in his death, and as Clarke’s hand falls to her wrist, she feels the jumping of her heart and the frustration return tenfold.

Her fingers brush against her wrist in search of her father’s watch, and it isn’t until just this moment that she realises that it is missing, that it was removed some time between when she had been taken from Polis and had arrived in Azgeda. 

The surprise doesn’t hurt so badly though, if only because Clarke thinks, perhaps foolishly that she will be reunited with it given the chance. And so she sighs, grits her teeth and pushes the worries away. And maybe she has been doing a lot of that lately, pushing away things, telling herself she will confront them at a later stage, when things aren’t so frantic, when her actions aren’t cause for panic and distress. But she thinks those things a requirement if she wishes to survive life on the ground. At least for now.

“Clarke,” and she turns to see Ontari eyeing her carefully.

“I’m ok,” Clarke shrugs.

“Are you?” and Ontari nudges her horse just a little closer as they continue to move over the compacted snow under hoof.

“Yeah,” and Clarke smiles and nods to herself. “I’ll be ok.”

 

* * *

 

The sun begins dipping into the horizon by the time they find a place to rest, and as Clarke eyes the sparse trees and their leafless branches, she can’t quite help but feel the gentle foreboding that seems to be creeping up into the back of her mind. And she thinks it worry for the actions she is about to take, worry for the outcome, where more than her life is at risk, where her people, her clan’s future is at stake. But yet again she pushes the thoughts aside as she dismounts her horse, feet landing onto the snow with a crunch and she begins moving towards the closest tree large enough to tie her horse to.

Clarke turns to find a fire being lit and small tents being set up, and so she finds herself falling into an easy rhythm as she moves about the small camp, the few with her sharing in warmth and dried meats as they prepare for the night.

 

* * *

 

Costia hits the pavement with a roll before she springs to her feet as she ducks under a hanging banner. She hears the snap of an arrow as it flashes past overhead and she curses the existence of the slippery stone underfoot. 

She isn’t even so sure she hit her mark, she isn’t sure whether she saw the blood and the pain, or perhaps it was a flash of surprise and the glare of the setting sun in her eyes. She hadn’t even had time to smirk or to smile before an arrow had been sent her way from a guard who had seen, had registered and reacted with his own arrow before hers had even finished flying through the air.

Costia races down a small side street to the shouts of guards who give chase, and she curses the fact she has no weapons to fight back with, but she knows herself only to blame. Her eyes dart left and right as buildings flash past, and she searches for an unlocked door to slip behind, an opened window to vault through, but she hears the creak and she hears the snap and so she drops to the ground with a grimace as another arrow whizzes overhead. 

Costia rises to her feet just before a body slams into her and forces her to the ground. But she twists, she tucks her chin down and she slams her head forward. She feels the crunch, she feels the impact and she hears the groan of pain. And Costia strikes out with her elbow, she slams it into the man’s throat and she pushes him back, her fingers snaring at the hilt of a knife she sees strapped against a thigh.

Costia hardly spares the warrior a thought before she turns and begins sprinting away. She doesn’t get far before she begins to hear the shouts and stamping of more warriors who begin giving chase, but she doesn’t even look over her shoulder, she barely even registers it, the only thing she focuses on is her breathing and her racing heart as she tries to find an exit, to find an escape, or to find a place to make a final stand, a place where she can hold off as many warriors as she can, for as long as she can, until her arms tire and her blood begins t—

She feels the wind knocked out of her lungs and she feels her back slam into stone as someone tackles her to the ground. Costia drives the knife forward only for the grey mass above her to shift and twist just enough that her knife just barely grazes the man’s shoulder before her wrist is pinned to the ground and the blade is slapped out of her grasp. Costia struggles for a moment, and she tries to lift her hips, to twist her body enough to throw the weight off, but she feels a rough hand close around her throat and she feels the tightening of fingers.

“You missed,” Teril hisses into her face as he leans over her, his eyes flashing. “Now shut up and let me help.”

And so Costia glares up at the man before he punches her firmly in the nose, and she whimpers and curses as she feels the blood spurt and her eyes water.

 

* * *

 

“We will arrive at the capital soon,” Echo says, and Clarke glances at her as she sees the assassin eyeing the sky. “We will try to enter from a secondary gate.”

“I do not think many would question Wanheda’s return,” Leeton says over the sound of the wind as it whistles through the group of warriors. “Kwin Nia has kept many things a secret.”

“I do not wish to make it easier for us to fail,” Echo answers and Clarke sees Bronat and Silence nod in agreement. 

“Our best bet is to just ride straight through,” Clarke says, and she eyes the few who ride with them. “You three are going to make it look like I’ve got authority over Northern Azgeda,” and she sees Jenma nod as Leeton and Bronat glance at Echo before back to Clarke. “You two,” and Clarke glances between Echo and Silence, “speak for yourselves,” and she hears Ontari snort. “And then it’s obvious why us three are together,” and Clarke gestures over her face and then to Ontari and Entani. 

“If we are stopped I can aid in getting past any guards,” Torvun says. 

“Yeah,” and Clarke shrugs. “Easy.” 

“I do not like it,” Echo says though, and Clarke sees the woman clench her jaw tightly. 

“You think too much like a spy, Echo,” Clarke says as she hears Ontari mutter something under her breath. “Too much sneaking around, that’ll only make us look suspicious, but if we just ride straight through the capital we won’t have an issue,” and she sees Silence nod quietly.

“Until we arrive at Nia’s throne room,” Echo says. “Then what do you suggest?”

“We simply tell her to give up and reveal to anyone there that she worked with the Mountain Men.”

“Very well,” and Echo sighs before turning her attention back to the horizon.

And so Clarke smiles slightly, the worry just a little less prominent now that she thinks a plan and a course of action has been decided.

 

* * *

 

It must be approaching sunset the following day by the time the capital’s walls sprawl out before her. Clarke squint past the sunlight that remains as she looks across the snowfield to find people moving to and from the city, some weary travellers, some warriors and others going about their business. Clarke feels the tension in her mind now, and as she contemplates just how best to proceed, she can’t help but to feel at odds with the scene before her. 

She watches as a group mingle together in the distance, she watches as what she thinks must be a family run through the fields and she watches as a young second follows behind a warrior, the horse the child rides atop much too large for her stature. 

“We do this for them,” Clarke says simply, and she knows her voice carries to those around her. “Whatever happens, remember that we’ll stop hundreds of death,” and Clarke takes a steadying breath as she feels Ontari and Entani both shift closer to her atop their horses and as Torvun lingers close behind them, his eyes careful as he takes in the people moving about.

“We should not linger, Clarke,” Echo says as she urges her horse forward. “The faster we make it into the capital the better.”

“Ok,” and Clarke nods to herself just once more before she clicks her tongue and urges her horse forward.

 

* * *

 

Riding towards the smaller gates that lie recessed in the outer wall is odd, Clarke finds. She thinks it odd because many Azgeda, warrior and civilian alike recognise her almost instantly despite her absence from Azgeda lands since the fall of the Mountain. But as they look to her she sees many stare in wonder, she sees some bow their heads quickly, and some wave and smile as she passes. 

And she thinks it must look like she comes in urgency given the few she rides with, given the weariness she knows she feels. And she suspects that people must think she comes straight from battle to deliver a message of the last of the Mountain Men and their acts of aggression, if only because she knows the wounds and bruises across her body must still be clearly visible, if only because the company she rides with is notorious for being fierce warriors, and her status as Wanheda warranting her the command of the two assassins who accompany her.

Entani nudges her foot with her own though, and Clarke follows the healer’s gaze to find a young girl, a second, with her battle scarred first. But what catches Clarke’s eyes is the girl’s own hair, a light blonde, her braids all too similar to Clarke’s and white war paint smeared on her face in the same design as the scars that decorate Clarke’s own face. And Clarke can’t quite help but to smile slightly, and perhaps even blush just a little as the young second looks on with wide eyes as she rides past.

People part for them, too, and Clarke watches as a number of warriors bow their heads as she passes, many standing aside, some barking out orders for the slower civilians to step aside.

And then Clarke finds herself before the open gates to the capital as a warrior holds up his hand as he approaches.

“Wanheda,” he says as he bows his head. “We did not know you were returning to Azgeda,” and he glances at the others who ride with her. “Kwin Nia informed us that you were still fighting the Mountain Men.”

“They have been dealt with,” Echo cuts in simply, her eyes ice and cold as she stares at him.

“My apologies, Wanheda,” the warrior says nervously. “I did not mean to offend,” and Clarke can’t help but to feel guilt at his nervousness. “Do you need your horses to be stabled?” he finishes.

“Yes,” Clarke says and she thinks that regardless of whatever is soon to happen, that she will not need a horse, that there will be no opportunity to make a fast escape.

And so she dismounts, and she hears the others follow her lead before a group of seconds rush forward to take the horses by the reins. 

“There are more guards than usual,” Torvun says to the guard as he brushes a hand over his head, his hair growing to an itchy stubble given the amount of time they have been on the move.

“Yes,” and the same guard worries his lip as he looks up at Torvun. “Kwin Nia was attacked,” and he glances to Bronat who curses out in surprise. 

“You did not know?” and he looks nervously to Clarke once more. “I thought maybe that was why you had come,” and he trails off, “You have not come to warn Kwin Nia?”

And Clarke feels Echo begin to shift just a little in the direction of the closest warrior to them.

“We had suspicions,” Clarke says quickly, eyes glancing to Ontari who comes to stand besides her. “But we have other matters to discuss with the Kwin,” she finishes, and she knows half truths must be better than lying. 

“Of course,” and the warrior bows his head. “You may proceed, Wanheda,” and Clarke smiles at him briefly as he waves them through.

And so Clarke takes a steady breath as she begins to move through the capital, her mind trying to sift through the information presented to her. 

“This is easier than trying to sneak through the capital,” Jenma says quietly from just behind Clarke. “We would have been spotted instantly.”

“Yeah,” and Clarke looks around her to see Azgeda glancing at her yet again, some subtly, some more openly.

“We should have waited until it was dark,” Echo hisses as she glances up at the darkening sky. 

And as Clarke eyes the next set of walls that begins to emerge from the haze of the winter cold she thinks that Echo may be correct. If only because she thinks that each wall they pass through is merely another chance for Nia to catch wind of their presence.

 

* * *

 

Lexa feels the wind as it bites into her flesh as she continues to ride at the forefront of the large war party. Roan rides besides her, and she thinks she feels his anticipation build, she thinks she feels the eagerness that rolls off his shoulders. 

“We will arrive soon, Prince Roan,” an Azgeda scout says as he pulls his horse up besides Roan and Lexa. “We believe we found Wanheda’s tracks, too,” and he gestures out to the left. “They are not so far ahead of us that we can not aid them if it is needed.”

“Good,” Roan says as he looks up into the dark sky. 

“How do you wish for this to play out?” Lexa asks him after the scout slips away.

“We will make as much noise as possible,” Roan shrugs. “We will be met by many warriors, but I believe they will not know what to do once I am recognised.”

“And if it comes to open conflict?” Lexa asks. “If your mother has commanded that you are to die?”

“It will not come to that,” Roan says. 

“You are no fool, Roan,” Lexa counters. “This was a gamble from the start.”

“I know,” and Roan shrugs as he looks at her. “If it comes to it then I will fight for the future of all clans.”

“And you are prepared to kill your own people?” Lexa asks. “Many will have to die.”

“Only one person has to die tonight,” Roan says simply.

“Yes,” and Lexa isn’t so sure what to think in this moment. 

But her head looks up to the sounds of a horn that echoes out over the lands and pierces through the sky. 

“Azgeda knows we come,” Roan says.

 

* * *

 

Clarke’s feet take her further and further down a street, her eyes scan every face she sees, and she can’t help but to anticipate something going wrong. She feels Ontari’s unease, too, and she knows the woman must be feeling unsure of how to process that she moves through the capital, that she is with people who plan to overthrow her Kwin, who plan a coup. But Ontari stays firmly by Clarke’s side, and Clarke can’t help but to think Ontari’s presence comforting after all they have been through together.

“Not far,” Torvun says as he continues to walk close to Clarke, his eyes scanning the people they pass, a simple glare all that is needed for many to avert their eyes in recognition of the threat.

Clarke can’t quite shake the unsettled thought that still wind their way through her mind though. And she thinks they slipped through every outer wall of the capital far too easily, each set of guards recognising her, respecting her and letting them through with little more than surprise and a reverential bowing.

“It is too easy,” Echo whispers, and Clarke thinks she senses Silence nod.

“Or no one knows,” Jenma says just slightly more easily, Bronat and Leeton who walk behind her also nodding in agreement. 

“What of the Royal Guards?” Entani asks as she looks at Torvun.

“We will take care of them if it comes to it,” Echo says simply as she gestures briefly to Silence. 

“I see,” and Entani grimaces as thoughts flash through her mind.

The group rounds a corner then, and Clarke stares at the large building that stands out before them. Banners and tapestries hang from the stone walls, ice and snow frost the edges and the hand print of Azgeda stands out proudly as the very last rays of the sun begin to fade away. Fires burn brightly, too, and Clarke thinks the shadows dance wickedly over the emptiness of the courtyard before her. 

“Ok,” and Clarke clenches her jaw tightly. “Here we g—”

A horn pierces the air, and Clarke’s head whips around in the direction of the sound as it rolls through the capital, its origin distant and far despite how the stone traps it around them.

“Prince Roan has been spotted,” Echo whispers. 

Clarke takes one last breath as she looks back the way they came before she turns to face forward. Thoughts flit through her mind of turning back, of fleeing, of being a coward. But she knows she doesn’t really consider them, doesn’t really think them an option. And she knows that after the Mountain, after surviving life on the ground, that taking the easy way out isn’t really surviving. Not quite, anyway.

And so she steps forward from the shadows and she begins crossing the courtyard. Ontari steps alongside her, Entani close behind them as Torvun stays firmly by Clarke’s shoulder. And it seems odd that this would be the way her gamble, her decision all those months ago is playing out. She thinks it odd that no last final battle is taking place, no warriors lie dying and dead at her feet. Or maybe it it to be expected. If only because the deal that set these actions into motion was started in the quiet of a tent, a whispered threat, a gamble and a stab in the dark for the betterment of her people. 

Clarke breathes out just once, and her breath comes shaky, it comes uneven and just a little frayed at the edges. And she thinks Ontari trembles slightly, too, the woman unsure of what awaits, unwilling to face the truth, or perhaps not unwilling, but in search of the truth, no matter how painful it may be.

Large doors stand before Clarke then, and she comes to a pause in front of them as two guards step forward, their eyes quickly taking in the company she keeps.

“Wanheda,” the first says, her head bowing before she meets Torvun’s gaze. “Torvun,” and Clarke senses a familiarity between them both, or perhaps an uneasy recognition as the guard takes in Torvun’s appearance. “Kwin Nia said to expect you.” 

Clarke smiles tightly, her fist closing over the handle of her knife as she tries to settle her beating heart. 

“You may enter,” and the guard bows once more as she steps aside, the doors opening behind her.

That same fire she had seen the first time she had visited the capital continues to burn in the centre of the atrium as it lies open before her. Those same pillars line the walls on either side, and those same doors sit in the wall. But this time Clarke doesn’t see any children, doesn’t see any warriors that linger. All she sees is the raging fire in the centre of the atrium and royal guards that stand by each pillar, their eyes tracking the newcomers, their furs glistening an ice white in the red of the firelight.

Clarke steps forward, and she thinks she feels Echo and Silence already counting the guards they see, the escape routes, the closest and the furthest vantage points. Torvun moves closer to her still, and she feels the three Northern Azgeda who move behind her begin to settle into a defensive position as they move deeper and deeper through the capital building. 

The last set of double doors stands out before Clarke, and she can’t help but to feel the sweat trickle down her neck as two more guards straighten and bow their heads before they begin to pull the doors open with a groaning creak.

And then the throne room lies open before Clarke. She recognises the tapestries and banners that hang from the ceiling, she recognises the distance she must cross to reach Nia’s throne and she recognises the furs that drape the walls and help to fight the cold.

But Clarke’s eyes snap to the throne before her.

She sees Nia sitting in it. The woman’s throne backed by the large furs of a hunted beast, its head resting atop the throne. Clarke’s eyes take in the guards who line the walls, who stare at her. But Clarke’s eyes snap to who stands besides Nia, who remains kneeling in front of her.

And she sees Costia on her knees, her hands shackled behind her back, her nose bloodied and her mouth gagged. Clarke sees Teril standing by Nia’s side, his jaw clenched tightly and his fingers resting against the knife strapped to his ribs as he eyes the newcomers.

Clarke begins walking forwards then, and she feels the guards against the walls begin to move with her and she feels Ontari’s unease, her discomfort. She feels Echo and Silence begin to move slightly further from the group, she feels the assassins begin to prepare for a strike or to intercept any who would attack, and she feels Entani and Torvun linger close together.

“Clarke,” Nia’s voice echoes out over the distance, and Clarke watches as the woman’s fingers begin to drum against her armrest. 

But Clarke ignores the woman’s words, her feet still taking her closer and closer to Nia. 

“That is close enough,” Teril’s voice echoes out as he steps forward, his eyes glaring harshly at Clarke. 

And so Clarke stops with distance between her and Nia.

“Clarke,” Nia repeats as she leans forward slightly.

“Nia,” and Clarke feels the unease ripple through the throne room.

“I must admit, Clarke,” and Nia’s gaze moves from Clarke to Ontari then to Entani before settling on Torvun for a long moment. “I am disappointed,” and Nia reclines back in her throne. “I am disappointed that Lexa was not the one to face me,” and Nia lifts her hand as she gestures to Costia who remains kneeling. “It is a shame Lexa will miss her beloved’s execution,” and Nia smirks. “For the second time.”

“Do these guards know what you’ve done?” Clarke asks as she gestures around them. “Do they know you sided with the Mountain Men. That you are responsible for Azgeda deaths?” 

“They are loyal to me,” Nia hisses. “They are loyal to Azgeda,” and Nia leans forward. “Unlike you and your friends, Clarke.”

“Everything I did was for Azgeda,” Clarke challenges. 

“Even disobeying your Kwin?” 

“Even disobeying my Kwin,” and Clarke lifts her chin. “But you are no Kwin of mine and you are no ruler of Azgeda if you are willing to side with those that bled our people for generations, who took our people, killed our people and turned them into monsters.”

Nia’s gaze turns back to Torvun before settling on Echo and Silence, and Clarke watches as Nia’s lip turns up into a snarl as she takes in both assassins. 

“Tell me, Clarke,” and Nia’s head tilts. “Who will come save you?” and Nia jerks her chin towards the exit. “Your friends have been spotted. They will not come save you,” and Nia stands from her throne, and Clarke watches as she begins to move closer to Costia, the woman’s head turning to the sound of Nia’s approaching footsteps. “Have you come to challenge me?” Nia asks. “Have you come to take the throne for yourself? Do you think you can rule Azgeda better than me?” 

“I come for your surrender,” Clarke answers, but she thinks that not so likely. “Azgeda deserves a ruler who doesn’t lie to its people, who doesn’t betray the sacrifice of our warriors.” 

“So you do come to issue the challenge?” and Nia smirks as she comes to a pause just behind Costia.

And maybe Clarke had thought, albeit foolishly, that Roan would have been here in this moment, would have been present to issue the challenge directly. 

“This is your last chance, Nia,” and Clarke tries to let her voice turn pleading, tries to let a little softness find its way into her words. “Do the right thing. For our people.”

“No,” Nia snarls. “I will not let Azgeda become a relic of the past,” and she grips Costia forcefully by the shoulder. “Azgeda must be stronger than the other clans to survive,” and Clarke watches as Nia’s expression shifts from anger to a quiet thoughtfulness for a moment before it settles on a sadness and regret. “I am sorry, though,” and Nia smiles warmly at Clarke, “that Lexa will not be present to see this.” 

And Clarke’s eyes widen as she registers what Nia plans to do. And she sees acceptance spread across Costia’s face, she sees the woman meet her gaze and she sees Costia’s eyes close slowly as Nia’s eyes meet Clarke’s and as she pulls a knife from her sleeve and brings it to Costia’s thro—

But Teril moves. 

Clarke’s eyes snap to the man and she sees his knife flash out as he throws it to the closest guard who crumples to the ground in a groan of pain as the blade slams into his shoulder. And Clarke sees Teril move for Nia, she sees his hand draw another knife, and she sees him push Costia aside just as Nia’s blade begins to cut into her neck.

But Nia reacts.

Clarke sees Nia’s eyes snap to Teril just as he makes his move, and she sees the Kwin brace for the impact. And then Teril crashes into her and Clarke senses other guards begin moving forward, some shouting at Clarke and those with her to remain still, others shouting at Teril. 

Clarke sees Teril’s knife find flesh and she sees the blade slice across Nia’s shoulder, the woman wincing only slightly at the pain. But Nia moves with the momentum of their bodies crashing together, and Clarke stares in shock as Nia merely smirks easily as she slams her elbow into Teril’s face, her free hand grasping his wrist as she kicks his legs out from under him.

And then Nia’s arm twists Teril’s wrist and Clarke hears the crack and the gasp of pain before Teril drops his knife, his knees slamming into the stone as Nia stands behind him and pulls his arm behind his back, her face contorting in anger as she stares at the side of his face as she twists his head with her free hand to meet her furious stare.

“I had suspected someone had betrayed me,” and Nia spits onto the ground as she gestures for the other guards to stay back, some looking from Nia to Teril and back to Clarke, unease and uncertainty in their eyes. “I had thought that it could have been you,” and Nia leans closer as she twists his wrist even more, and Clarke feels her stomach churn as she hears the grinding of Teril’s wrist as it breaks further. “You put on a convincing show, Teril,” Nia hisses into his ear.

“I serve Azgeda,” Teril gasps out in pain as Nia pulls his face more firmly. “I serve the throne,” and he winces as Nia’s fingers dig into his cheek as she kneels behind him and as she brings her face to his slowly. 

But Nia’s eyes snap to Clarke’s, and Clarke feels the grimace pulling at her lips as Nia smiles, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she kisses Teril’s cheek softly. 

“You served loyally, Teril,” Nia whispers into the silence. “It is a shame you decided to betray me.”

And then Nia sinks her knife into the side of Teril’s neck slowly, and Clarke stares as the blade disappears into his flesh. And Teril gags on it, Clarke watches as she sees his throat contort, as the muscle spasms to the intrusion and as blood begins to froth and gurgle and splatter past his lips. And Clarke watches as Nia twists the blade slowly, Teril’s face tearing to the pain as blood rushes from his face, as blood begins to spurt from the increasingly torn wound in the side of his neck.

And then Nia begins to drag the knife back and forth, the edge slowly slicing through Teril’s throat and Clarke can’t help but to feel sick, feel anger and hate begin to bubble to the forefront of her mind as she sees Teril’s eye’s water and glisten in the pain. 

And she thinks it must only last a few too long seconds, but the sounds that ring out seem to last an eon. But then Nia’s knife slides free from Teril’s throat and she stands back as she wipes the blade on her sleeve as Teril’s twitching, contorting, still alive body falls face first to the ground, his throat torn open and his gagged, ragged and gurgled breathing fills the air.

“You wish to challenge me, Clarke?” Nia says as she glances to Costia who remains wide eyed on her knees as she stares at Teril’s blood that pools at her knees.

Clarke takes a steadying breath, she pushes her pain and her anguish aside and she meets Nia’s eyes with her own hardened gaze. And she thinks she will consider and deal with the consequences for her actions at a later time. 

And so she takes a step forward and pulls her knife free.

“I challenge you, Nia.”


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied. There's one last chapter after this.

Nia’s smile spreads even further as she stares at Clarke. And Clarke can’t quite help but to feel her body begin to tremble, whether that be from fear, from anticipation or from adrenaline. But she hears Ontari take in a shallow breath, and if Clarke didn’t think Nia would abuse the lapse in concentration, Clarke would turn around, would comfort her friend. But she keeps her gaze locked on Nia who steps past Costia with a smirk and a stroke of a hand across the kneeling woman’s cheek. 

The Royal Guards closest to Nia seem unsure of what to do in this moment too, and as Clarke watches the one who Teril had injured, Clarke thinks his face a deathly white, she thinks she sees his fingers tremble and his lips quiver as sweat drips down his brown. Another guard moves carefully over to the man’s side, and Clarke spares them only another quick glance to see the woman kneel down and begin to pull him further from the centre of the room, her eyes darting from Nia and back to Clarke.

Clarke takes a deep breath then, tests the weight of her knife and she steps forward. Clarke lets her feet take her closer to Nia and she pauses with just a few arm lengths between them. Some of the guards approach, too, and Clarke senses them form a circle around her and Nia, the silence and the unspoken words that seem to pass between everyone present enough of an acknowledgement that an offical challenge has been given and a response has been taken. 

And Clarke knows no one will interfere, she knows no one will try to sway the outcome. 

Clarke’s gaze snaps back to Nia’s eyes, and she sees the woman smirk once more before her eyes go blank and her knife begins to move slowly through the air as she begins to circle around Clarke with a lazy step, her long furs hiding her footwork, her eyes not quite focusing on any one part of Clarke’s body.

And so Clarke begins to circle, too. Her knife feels light in her grasp and she lets her mind ease into a rhythm and her thoughts settle on the task at hand. Clarke thinks over what she knows of Nia, she considers how Nia had thrown the knife at Costia’s head that one time, she thinks over how Nia had arrived at the gates of Arkadia, of how she had surprised Clarke with her presence. And Clarke thinks Nia will not move first, will not try to draw blood first. If only because Clarke thinks Nia likes to gauge her opponents, likes to wait for them to make a move so that she can counter it, so that she can weaken, can pick away at their weaknesses.

Clarke snakes her knife out quickly, she lets the blade slice through the air and she watches as Nia’s gaze follows the glint before the woman steps back just in time to avoid the sharp edge. Clarke tests the stone underfoot then, and she lets her heel slip just enough that she knows how far she can slide, how quickly she can move without losing her footing, and she knows Nia has an advantage in this, she knows Nia must have walked over the stone underfoot countless times, she knows Nia must be aware of every crack, every raised edge, every jagged point that would cause Clarke to lose her footing.

Clarke draws back slightly as Nia begins to advance then, and Clarke watches as Nia’s lips curl up slightly, her eyes gleaming in the flickering light of the fires and candles that burn around them.

“Wanheda,” Nia croons quietly, “who could have imagined that the Commander of Death would visit me herself?” and Nia darts forward, her knife slicing through the air as the blade slashes out at Clarke’s wrist.  

But Clarke feels the attack coming and she dives under the strike and rolls onto her feet behind Nia who turns simply, her furs spinning out as she comes to face Clarke again.

“You think you can rule Azgeda better than I?” and Nia sweeps a hand around them, and Clarke lets her gaze fall to the guards who stand close by, and she lets her gaze flit over the wounded guard, the same woman kneeling over him as she pushes her hand against his shoulder as blood continues to pool out around her fingers. “You think you can lead Azgeda to greatness?”

“Azgeda is already great,” Clarke answers. “But you’re too blinded by your desire to rule everything to see that,” and Clarke lunges, she slices out with her knife and she drops her weight enough so that she rolls under Nia’s block, and Clarke sees her knife sink forward, she sees it begin to slice into Nia’s side.

But Nia sees it and she slips back, she twists her body, and she slams her palm into Clarke’s face with a brutal strike that stuns her and causes Clarke to drop to her knees as her eyes water and her nose burns out in pain. 

“You think you can defeat me?” Nia sneers as Clarke scrambles to her feet. “I have trained my whole life to defend my clan,” and Nia gestures with her free hand as she sweeps it around the throne room. “I have fought for this my whole life,” and Clarke rises to her feet and drags the back of her hand across her nose as she watches Nia’s hand continue to draw a trembling arc across the throne room. “I will not allow you to take from me what I have suffered years for.”

And Nia attacks again, and Clarke back-peddles quickly as Nia slashes quickly, her blade hissing past Clarke’s face before the Kwin reverses grip, her free hand punching out fast enough that Clarke doesn’t have the time to block both blows, and she feels Nia’s fist slam into her ribs . But Clarke manages to bring her knife out just in time to redirect Nia’s strike away from her throat, the clang of metal against metal ringing in her ears as Nia kicks Clarke’s leg out from under her.

And Clarke lets the loss of footing take her body down to the ground, and she rolls with it, she braces and she slides aways with a groan of pain before rising again.

“How long have you trained, Clarke?” Nia asks as she turns easily, her eyes angry in the fading light. “How many hours have you spent honing your skills knowing that one day someone will challenge you? How many years have you spent waiting for an assassin to kill you in your sleep? How many years have you spent leading your people to greatness?”

Clarke steadies her breathing, her ankle smarting to the violent kick, her ribs protesting the expansion of her lungs, and she watches as Nia points her knife squarely at Clarke as she sneers again, as she turns the blade so she holds her hand palm up, her fingers brushing against the handle as she begins to walk forward once more.

“I will not allow Azgeda to fall to ruin,” and Nia steps over Teril’s blood as it seeps further and further over the stone. “I will not allow other clans to pillage and take from Azgeda what they do not deserve,” and Nia continues to stalk forwards, her free hand held by her side, the blood from Teril’s cut beginning to matt the furs of her arm. “Trikru does not deserve Azgeda’s keep. Broadleaf, Glowing Forest both are weak,” and Nia sneers. “Rock Line? Blue Cliffs? What have they done for Azgeda? What can they do for Azgeda?” 

But Clarke grits her teeth and focuses on Nia’s advance, she focuses on the way Nia steps over the stone and the way Nia keeps moving forwards. And Clarke slashes out, she lunges forward and she lets her blade whip out in search of Nia’s flesh only for the Kwin to block the strike and counter it with her own. But Clarke ducks under the woman’s arm once more and she spins around to face her. And Clarke takes the time to glance back to the wounded warrior, to the way the blood continues to bleed out between the other woman’s grasp. And Clarke spares him a glance long enough to register the paleness of his flesh, the way his fingers tremble and the way sweat drips down his face despite the cold.

“Fight me,” Nia snarls as she moves on Clarke. “Face me,” and Nia slashes out. “You challenge me, yet you refuse to fight,” and Nia lunges, and Clarke’s gaze focuses on Nia’s approach, and she waits. 

Clarke waits for long enough that Nia commits to the strike, she waits for long enough that Nia is close enough that Clarke thinks she sees a trail of sweat beginning to drip down Nia’s temple, that slides across the raised edges of her scars. And Clarke even thinks she sees the paleness of the woman’s flesh and the rapid beating of her pulse.

And Clarke thinks she knows what Teril must have done, why Teril injured another guard, had wasted time in showing his hand rather than moving straight for Nia.

And so Clarke darts forward, she meets Nia half way and she slams her head into Nia’s nose with a forceful strike that leaves both women reeling, Nia’s nose bloodied, Clarke’s eyes watering as she ducks under Nia’s broad slash.

“It’s over, Nia,” Clarke says. “It doesn’t matter if I die, it doesn’t matter if you kill everyone else in this room,” and Clarke sweeps a hand out to those who continue to watch. “Roan is coming. The Azgeda in the capital haven’t attacked,” and Clarke taps her ear. “Where’s the sounds of fighting? Where’s the calls for reinforcements? For more warriors?” 

But Nia snarls as she moves on Clarke, and she attacks with speed now, with an anger and a fury that takes Clarke by surprise. And so Clarke shifts her stance and she begins deflecting each attack as she blocks furious strike after ferocious slash, the sounds of their knives slashing together filling the throne room with the gentleness of controlled anger. But Nia continues to press Clarke further and further back, and Clarke senses the guards shift around them, as they move and part for the two women who continue to battle. 

Clarke feels the heat of a flame behind her, and she knows Nia backs her into a pillar or a wall, she knows Nia tries to trap her with little space for movement. But Clarke lets Nia dictate where they move, she lets the woman continue to press forward, to exert herself, to pump the blood through her veins as she raises her heart rate. 

Clarke’s back slams into the wall as Nia pushes forward, and Clarke only has a second’s warning to the kick that comes, Nia’s furs hiding her footwork as she lashes out with a heavy boot and kicks it into Clarke’s stomach, and then Nia holds her ground as she stands before Clarke, eyes gleaming in the light.

“I will kill you,” Nia says, her breathing more laboured now, her lip quivering slightly to the exertion. “And every Azgeda will come to know the name Clarke to mean traitor,” and Nia lunges once more. And Clarke grits her teeth, she prepares to dive out of the way, to make distance between them for just a moment longer. 

Clarke ducks the strike, she begins to dive but she feels Nia’s elbow slam into her throat as the Kwin anticipates her escape route. Clarke gags and groans in pain as she spins with the blow and as she stumbles on the stone, her feet trying to find purchase on the iced hardness underneath her. 

But Nia moves quickly, her hand snares Clarke’s braids and pulls her back until her shoulder slams into the ground and Clarke whimpers as Nia slams her foot into her ribs, the kick enough to loosen her grasp on her knife, and she gasps out as she hits the ground fully, and she curses as she sees her knife scrape against the ground as it slides from her grasp.

“You do not know pain,” Nia snarls. “You do not know suffering,” and Nia stalks forward. “I will teach you these things,” and Clarke begins to crawl to where her knife lies on the ground, but Nia steps on Clarke’s ankle harshly, the weight enough for Clarke’s eyes to water as Nia’s heel pushes her ankle into the stone. “You are weak, Clarke,” Nia sneers.

But Clarke manages to just barely grasp her knife and so she slashes out with it, and she tries to ignore the burn in her ribs and the lack of oxygen in her lungs, but Nia catches her wrist easily, she twists her hand and Clarke feels her arm pull painfully aside as Nia swipes the blade out of her hand with a fast slash of her own knife. 

“It is over,” Nia says simply as she places a knee on Clarke’s chest and pushes her down to the stone, her eyes just once glancing to those that stand around them, that stare transfixed on what happens. “But I am impressed, Clarke,” and Nia smiles. “You have made me work harder than I expected.” 

“You’re a coward,” Clarke snarls as she feels Nia’s knee push more firmly into her chest as the Kwin settles herself over Clarke’s body. 

“I am the coward?” Nia asks with a raising of her eyebrow. “Who ran from who just now? Who refused to meet me in single combat? Who challenged me to fight only to duck and run from each advance I made?” and Nia leans her face closer to Clarke’s. 

“You’re a coward because you hide in the shadows, you get others to do your dirty work,” and Clarke grimaces as Nia releases her wrist only for her to close her cold fingers around her throat.

Clarke grimaces as she feels Nia’s weight settle fully on her chest, and she thinks she hears Ontari’s pained whimpers from somewhere behind her. Clarke keeps her eyes focused on Nia though, and she thinks the next few moments crucial, she thinks the next few moments important, she knows them to be life or death, to be the gamble that pays off or the failed attempt to survive whatever her life has become.

Nia’s eyes hold Clarke’s for a long moment, and Clarke thinks Nia considers gloating now, she thinks the woman considers how to kill her, whether to make it quick, whether to make it public. But Clarke feels the subtle shift above her, she feels the gentle trembling in Nia’s fingers, in her cold grasp and Clarke knows she sees the sweat drip down the woman’s jaw.

Nia brings her knife up slowly, the point glinting in the dark fire light and Clarke grimaces as Nia drags the tip gently across her cheek, just barely enough that it tickles her skin, makes her face twitch as the point comes to rest against the corner of her eye.

“Clarke,” and Nia’s lips turn up slightly as she lets her gaze wander over Clarke’s face. “I had such high hopes for you,” and Clarke feels Nia’s breath brush against her lips as the woman pushes against her throat gently. “Goodbye.”

And so Nia raises the knife, she lets the point hang above Clarke’s face. 

And then she drives it forward.

 

* * *

 

The shadows reach far now, the last of the sun’s rays dipping below the horizon, and Lexa takes in the purples and reds that it leaves behind, and as she glances into the sky she sees the stars already beginning to fade into existence.

Lexa watches as Roan stands at the forefront of the combined Azgeda and Coalition army. She takes a moment to steady her beating heart before she turns her attention to the Azgeda warriors that stand before her, and she feels the apprehension that rolls through their ranks, that causes them to shift with uncertainty and unease. 

And she knows it must be strange to face their own people, to face their prince with an army of Northern Azgeda and Coalition warriors at his back. But she thinks Nia’s games have backfired, she thinks Nia’s secrecy has caused her plots to slip through. 

Because as she looks out at the Azgeda who had come to meet the invading force, she can tell that they are not aware of Roan’s actions, she can tell that they know not of Nia’s deals with the Mountain, with the events that have taken place.

“Who commands you?” Roan’s voice echoes out over the silence, and Lexa sees a few Azgeda at the front of the army share uncertain gazes.

“I lead the capital’s defences, Prince Roan,” a warrior says as he steps forward, his hand raising slowly as he begins the lone walk through the shallow snow.

Lexa watches as Roan studies the man, she watches as Roan takes his measure, and she watches as Roan begins to move forward, too. And she watches as Roan waves off two Northern Azgeda who begin to move with him, who keep their hands on their swords.

“Forgive me, Prince Roan,” and the warrior bows his head as he pauses an arms length from Roan. “But we were not informed that you were returning,” and he looks up cautiously. “Kwin Nia informed us that you were hunting the Mountain Men.”

“I see,” and Lexa watches as Roan’s head tilts and as he glances to the warriors who defend the capital, who continue to gaze upon the Coalition forces that stand alongside the Northern Azgeda.

“May I ask why the Commander marches with you?” the warrior asks, and Lexa sees him glance at her only for his gaze to shift quickly back to Roan’s.

“You may not,” Roan says simply as he begins looking into the sea of Azgeda before him. “Wanheda,” Roan says, his gaze snapping back to the warrior’s. “She arrived?”

“Yes,” the warrior says as he looks over his shoulder. “She arrived at the outer wall not long ago,” and the warrior worries his lips. “You sent her to deliver a message for Kwin Nia?”

Roan meets the warrior’s question with a simple lifting of his chin.

“Hand me your weapon,” Roan says instead of an answer. 

Lexa watches the warrior’s eyebrows quirk together, and she sees him look to the closest Trikru warrior who shifts in the cold.

“I will not ask again,” Roan says, his voice hardening, his eyes ice.

And Lexa watches as the warrior swallows, and she thinks he must consider what to do, how to act, whether to disobey an order, to question further. But Roan takes a step forward, and Lexa thinks that must be enough to shake the man’s uncertainty because he averts his eyes and he loosens his sword from its sheath before he draws it awkwardly with his opposite hand, the blade whistling as it slides free.

“Prince Roan,” the warrior says as he offers the blade to Roan with a step backwards. 

“Kneel,” Roan says simply as he takes the man’s sword and stares him down.

And the warrior looks up once in confusion before he lowers himself to a knee, and Lexa’s eyes snap to the Azgeda before her, and she sees open hostility in some faces, she sees uncertainty and confusion in others.

“I am taking command of all who stand before me,” Roan calls out into the silence, and Lexa feels her hand tighten instinctively on her sword as she feels the ripple roll through the Azgeda forces.

“Prince Roan?” the warrior asks as he looks up from where he kneels. 

Roan glares at the man though, and Lexa sees him recoil just slightly as Roan steps around him and begins to stalk along the front of the Azgeda.

“Kwin Nia is no longer ruler of Azgeda, she has betrayed our clan,” and he lets the tip of the sword he holds drag through the snow, the sounds of the blade scraping against the iced ground spreading into the silence. “At this very moment Wanheda, Mountain Slayer, Champion of Azgeda, demands her surrender,” and Roan stops before a furious warrior, the woman’s eyes aflame as she looks from Roan to the Coalition forces. “You do not believe me?” Roan snarls in her face.

“Kwin Nia would not betray Azgeda,” the woman says simply, her chin raising in challenge.

“You call me a liar?” Roan asks, and Lexa sees the woman’s eyes widen a fraction as she realises her mistake. “You call me a liar?” Roan reiterates as he steps forward. 

“I—” and the woman swallows painfully as she takes a step back, others around her moving further away as Roan advances on her. “No, Prince Roan,” and the woman looks away, but Lexa still sees the snarl lifting the corner of her lips. 

“But you do not believe me?” and Roan continues his stalk before the Azgeda warriors. “Kwin Nia sided with the Mountain Men,” and Roan lets his voice spread even further into the silence.

“She would not,” another warrior shouts, and Roan turns in search of the voice only to find silence once more. 

“She would,” Roan snarls. “Bring him,” and Roan gestures with a flick of his wrist.

And so Lexa feels her heart beat just a moment faster as two Northern Azgeda warriors break from the army she stands before. Lexa watches as eyes focus on who is carried between them, his feet struggling to remain upright in the iced snow. 

“The last of the Mountain Men,” Roan says as he points to Jaha’s tired body as it is forced to kneel in front of Roan. “Tell them,” Roan says as he meets Jaha’s weary eyes. 

And Lexa thinks the next words to be voiced will break this silence, will shatter it and send warrior crashing against warrior. But she thinks it could hone the silence into a stunned stupor, could cause enough confusion, enough uncertainty in those that stand before her to allow Roan’s hold on their loyalty to dig deeper, to pierce through their minds and sway their allegiances. 

Lexa watches as Jaha turns and glances over his shoulder, and she watches as his gaze shifts from warrior to warrior before they land on Wells, his son, who stands close by Lexa’s side with the few Skaikru warriors that had travelled with them. And Lexa knows she sees a choice made in that moment, she knows Jaha accepts whatever fate he seals for himself, and she feels those around her grip their weapons more tightly now, she feels them prepare to strike, prepare to rush forward, prepare to war and bleed and seek violence where they can. 

And so Lexa watches as Jaha turns back to Roan. And she watches as Jaha’s eyes harden, and as his mouth opens, and as words begin to form on his lips.

 

* * *

 

Nia drives the knife forward and Clarke feels time slow to a crawl. She sees the firelight glancing off the tip of the blade as it falls to her heart, she hears the whistling of air as the blade slices through the space between them, and she sees the raging pulse that strums beneath the Kwin’s skin. But above all, she feels Nia’s cold fingers, she feels the tremble in the woman’s grasp and she sees the sweat that drips openly down the Kwin’s cheek. And she knows the poison has set in. 

And so Clarke acts. She reaches up and she rips Nia’s weakened hold from her throat with little more than a grimace as Nia’s nails claw at her skin, and Clarke grips the woman’s wrist with her other hand, she raises her hips and she twists her body with the momentum. She redirects Nia’s hand past her face, her gaze following the knife as it only just slices into her cheek.

Clarke ignores the burn and the pain and the blood and she rolls them both so that Nia lands on her back, so that Clarke now straddles the woman. Clarke strikes out with a fist then, the blow slamming into the crook of Nia’s elbow. 

And that is all it takes, all Clarke needs. The blow weakens Nia’s grasp on the knife. It stuns her arm. It gives Clarke the time, the seconds, the breath to turn the knife back towards the wielder. And then she pushes forward. She growls out in anger as she drives the woman’s own hand back towards her own throat. 

Clarke knows it lasts little more than a second, little more than the drip of blood that she feels spilling from her cheek. But she watches as the blade sinks into Nia’s flesh, into the underside of her jaw, she watches as the blade slowly pierces through her throat and up into the roof of her mouth. Nia’s eyes widen in shock first, and Clarke thinks she sees the pain and anger and fury wash over the woman’s face all within the time it takes for the blade to fully settle, to fully embed itself. 

Nia’s ragged breathing fills the air then, and Clarke doesn’t quite realise how close her face is to Nia’s until she feels the woman’s breath brush her cheek, until she feels the misting of blood as it sprays from her lips.

Nia’s eyes close once, and Clarke sees them squeeze painfully, she sees Nia’s lips tremble and she feels the ache in her own body as Nia opens her eyes and meets Clarke’s gaze. Nia’s hand reaches out then, and it comes carefully, it comes slowly, and Clarke holds the gaze they share as Nia brings a cold hand up to her cheek, the woman’s fingers brushing against her face for a slow moment. 

“I’ll take care of our people,” Clarke whispers to her, and she sees the acceptance that settles over Nia, and she knows she feels the woman’s fingers begin to tremble as life slowly starts bleeding away.

And perhaps Clarke finds herself not quite sure what Nia thinks, whether the acceptance she saw was for her death, or for Clarke’s own words and actions. But Clarke feels Nia’s hand slacken from where it remains rested against her face. And it’s odd, too, Clarke thinks Nia a fool, she thinks the woman vindictive, cruel, too quick to punish, too arrogant, too eager for violence and pain. But she knows Nia’s actions only stem from wanting her people to succeed, to thrive and prosper and remain strong. To survive. And Clarke thinks she can respect that. Just a little.

“Your fight is over,” Clarke finishes quietly as Nia’s eyes begin to dull and as her hand drops from Clarke’s face.

Clarke pulls the knife from under Nia’s jaw slowly, she watches as the blood oozes from the wound and as it covers her hand and pools in the dip in Nia’s neck.

Clarke can’t quite tell if she feels relief in this moment, she can’t quite tell if she feels remorse or dread or anxiousness. If only because she finds herself not quite sure what it means for her now, what her actions have dictated must happen, how the choices she has made will lead her life. And with such an action, with such a change, she had thought that there would be more violence, there would be shouted words, would be an explosion of emotion and actions. She had thought there would have been more than whispered words and a shared touch.

But she she looks up from where she sits over Nia’s body, and as she looks around herself she finds Royal Guards already beginning to bow, already beginning to kneel in the throne room as the death of the Kwin sinks in and as the last of her blood spreads out from where Clarke sits atop her dying body. 

Clarke’s gaze falls to Costia who remains kneeling by the throne, her eyes stunned and unsure and unfocused as she stares at Nia’s body. And Clarke’s eyes meet Ontari’s then, and she feels the woman’s relief, she feels the woman’s happiness and she smiles, she smiles just a little as Ontari’s eyes close and as she takes in a deep breath before releasing it. Entani smiles, too, and Clarke can’t quite help but to feel at odds with the scene before her, she can’t quite tell whether she has the right to feel anything more than pain and suffering. But as Ontari begins to kneel, as Entani takes a knee and as Torvun lowers himself to the ground, Clarke thinks she should embrace whatever it is that happens now. 

At least for the moment. 

And so Clarke rises to her feet. She looks down at Nia’s body just once more, for just long enough that she can commit the image to her mind, so that she knows she will never forget the actions she has done. And then she takes in those who kneel, those who have witnessed the challenge. And then she turns her gaze to the doors that lie open, that let in the cold of the night, and her gaze falls to the figures that remain silhouetted by the raging of the fire that fights back the dark. 

Clarke sees Lexa’s eyes take in the scene before her, she sees Lexa’s gaze move from Nia’s body to Clarke’s bloodied fist that still holds the knife before landing on Costia. Clarke thinks she sees relief wash over Lexa in that moment, but then Clarke sees Lexa’s eyes move to meet her gaze once more. And Clarke sees Roan, too, she sees him take in the scene before him, she sees an uncertainty, an acceptance and an odd emotion she can’t quite pinpoint flit through his eyes.

Clarke steps over Nia’s body and she can’t quite let herself believe, can’t quite let herself accept. She takes in the Royal Guards who remain kneeling, she takes in Costia’s gaze as it stares from Nia’s blood to Clarke’s bloodied fist, and she takes in Ontari who kneels, who smiles, she takes in Entani and Torvun who remain kneeling, too, she sees Echo and Silence, she sees Jenma, Bronat and Leeton who all kneel, who all remain quiet and then she sees Lexa and Roan who stand in the doors, who haven’t moved, who haven’t disturbed whatever it is they think she waits for. 

But Clarke thinks she knows what has happened, she thinks she understands and accepts the role she has inherited. 

And so she looks around herself just once more before she lets her voice fill the throne room.

“Rise.”


	29. Chapter 29

Clarke wakes to the rapid beat of her heart. Her eyes snap open and she can’t help but to gasp out in shock and confusion as she sits up, her eyes searching for whoever had intruded, whoever had interrupted her sleep. It takes her a moment to register the knife she holds in her grasp and that the intruder had merely been her thoughts, had merely been the dreams she finds come and go as they please.

But she hears the quiet nock on her door, she hears the careful pause and the uncertainty of the guards outside.

“I’m ok,” she calls out, and she grimaces as she lets the furs pool at her waist, the cool air just a little warmer now, just a little less chilled in the early hours.

She slips from her bed then, and she lets her eyes wander over the furs that line her walls, that shine dimly in the light and she can’t help but to feel at odds with the warmth and the beauty of what lays around her. 

But Clarke shakes her thoughts, grits her teeth and begins the short walk to her washroom, her feet just barely echoing out around her, the stone underfoot cold and hard. Clarke pauses in front of her washbasin then, and she feels the twitching of her lip as she eyes the kindling left out for her and the already full basin, the cold water waiting for her to heat.

She feels the smile chase away her nightmare though, and she lets the memories of when she had first been introduced to her servants take a hold, she smiles at the memory of how the youngest had stared at her wide eyed and starstruck only for an older servant to jab her quickly in the ribs as she had hissed words of being respectful under her breath.

It doesn’t take Clarke long to light the fire and to let the crackling flame begin to heat the bottom of the basin, and she sits by its edge, she lets her fingers dip into the warming water as she traces the stars that begin to dim a little as the sun rises. 

She waits until the steam begins to rise, until the faintest sign of bubbles begins to stir the water and then she extinguishes the flame with a splash of water. Clarke stands then and she lets her sleep clothes drop to the floor. She welcomes times like this, she finds that she enjoys the way the cold bites into her flesh, the way it steals the breath from her lungs and the way it prickles her skin. She enjoys the contrast, too, she enjoys the very first step into the basin, when her body flinches to the heat, if only because it lets her know she lives, she still breathes, she still wakes at the rising of the sun. 

And so she lets herself recline into the scolding water, she lets the scents and spices of the soap fill her nose and soothe her body.

And she enjoys it, she enjoys the quiet, if only because she never knows just what the day will bring.

 

* * *

 

Clarke’s feet echo through the halls of the capital building, and as she passes warrior and servant alike she sees them nod to her, she sees them bow, and she feels her guards move with her, she feels them shadow her steps and eye any who even thinks of approaching without permission. And she rolls her eyes, but only a little, because she knows she can’t help but to smile when she sees a young servant beam broadly, wave and almost drop the basket she carries. 

And Clarke smiles and she lets it reach her eyes because she doesn’t wish for people to live in fear of her, she doesn’t wish for Azgeda to take from her the image of the Commander of Death, of someone who had fought for her people, of someone who had bled and suffered and returned victorious. Because she knows how the stories had spread, she knows warriors whisper of how she had slain Kwin Nia, of how she had bathed in the woman’s blood, of how she had returned to enact vengeance for the warriors who had died fighting the Mountain. 

But Clarke knows herself not to be a fool, not to be someone who doesn’t realise the strength and power that image provides. 

And so she sighs, glances out a window she passes at the still low sun and she continues walking down the hallway, eyes meeting those that glance her way before they bow and smile softly, words whispered of greetings and well wishes.

Clarke arrives at the healer’s room after a short walk through the capital building, and as she eyes the large doors that remain open and the many beds that line the walls, she can’t help but to smile just a little more freely, if only because she had demanded that all must have easy access to medical care and aid. Two of her guards pause at the entrance, but Clarke feels the others continue with her as she begins walking down the line of beds. Clarke smiles and nods to the many warriors she passes, the endless stream of training injuries seemingly increasing with each day, the warriors, she assumes, taking the installation of such a large healer’s space as message that they must train harder, must train longer, more violently.

But Clarke doesn’t quite mind. If only because they don’t mind. And so she smiles openly at one warrior who waves awkwardly, one hand bandaged, the other arm pinned to his side, a riding accident to blame for his injuries.

But she finds who she searches for, and as she comes to a pause she lets her eyes take in the injury that slices down Torvun’s face, the cut that only just misses his eye. 

“Clarke,” he says as he tries to rise, only for Clarke to hold up a hand. 

“Relax, Torvun,” Clarke says quietly. “How is he?” she asks, and she sees Entani look up from where she mixes a paste in a small bowl.

“Fine,” the healer grumbles. “But he does not realise how lucky he is,” and she points to his eye. “He came this close,” and Entani holds her thumb and index finger up so that they almost touch, “to losing it.”

“But I did not, which is all that matters,” and Torvun smirks as Entani merely scoffs and pushes him down onto the bed as she leans over his face and begins to smear the cut with the paste.

“It was training,” and Entani rolls her eyes. “You do not need to prove anything when you train,” and Clarke thinks she already knows what Torvun will say. 

“Yes I d—”

“Ok,” Clarke cuts in quickly, and she knows their argument will spiral, will end in them sharing insults soon. “I expect you back on my guard detail by the afternoon, Torvun,” and Clarke pins him with an even look. 

“I will return before the morning meal,” Torvun says simply, despite Entani’s grunt of annoyance.

“Good,” and Clarke looks him over briefly before she begins to turn, but she feels the wriggle in the back of her mind and so she turns back to Entani to see the healer looking pointedly away from her. “Where’s Ontari?” Clarke asks. 

And she sees Entani grimace slightly, she feels the woman consider whether to lie or to tell the truth. 

“I do not know,” Entani answers simply, and Clarke feels the twitching in her lips as Torvun chuckles quietly.

“You’re really going to cover for her?” Clarke asks, her eyebrow raising. 

Entani meets her gaze then, and she sees the healer raise her chin in defiance, her eyes flashing. And so Clarke merely raises an eyebrow and meets her friend’s gaze with her own.

“She promised to clean all my supplies,” Entani complains. “Even to sharpen my spear.”

“I see,” and Clarke hears a guard behind her snort just once. “If I give you the afternoon off will you tell me where she is?” 

And she sees Entani consider her words, she sees Entani mull them over and bite her lip in thought. 

“She is at her quarters,” and Entani jerks her chin in the direction she talks of. 

“Really?” and Clarke thinks over what Entani says. 

“Yes, Clarke,” and Entani turns her attention back to Torvun’s fresh wound. “I expect the afternoon free,” the healer finishes. 

And so Clarke chuckles quietly before she turns and begins to walk towards the exit.

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t take Clarke long before she comes to a quiet pause outside locked doors, and as she turns to the guards who walk with her she thinks she sees humour living in some eyes.

“She brought this on herself,” Clarke says, and she sees one shrug in answer.

“She is Ontari,” the guard says simply. 

And so Clarke rolls her eyes as she faces the door again. 

Clarke bangs on the door once, and she hears the curse and the yelp through the wood before she hears feet slapping against stone and hushed whispers. And then the door’s lock scrapes back and Clarke watches it open a crack to reveal a head of wild curls and dark skin.

“Clarke,” the surprised voice says.

“Costia,” and Clarke raises her chin as she meets the woman’s gaze. “You aren’t dressed, are you?” Clarke says as she sees Costia try to close the door just a crack.

“No,” and Costia blushes as she looks back into her room subtly. 

Clarke’s smile returns though, and she can’t help but to think it just a little amusing, and just a little annoying, too. If only because she knows Ontari will hold this against her for months.

“Entani gave you up,” Clarke calls out, and she hears the curse. “She traded your offer to clean her stuff for the rest of the day off.”

“Maybe I will make her disappear,” Ontari’s voice answers. 

“Who’d cover for you then?” Clarke challenges, and she hears Ontari grumble quietly before she hears the woman approach the door.

“Torvun would,” Ontari says as her face appears over Costia’s shoulder. 

“Would he?” and Clarke sees Ontari recoil once she registers the guards that stand just behind Clarke. 

“Please do not let this spread,” Ontari whispers as resignation falls across her face.

And so Clarke looks over her own shoulder at the guards who stand close by. 

“Do not speak of this to anyone,” she begins, and she turns back to see relief settle over Ontari’s face, and she sees Costia’s eyes roll at the sigh Ontari lets loose. “I still expect all your duties to be done before the morning meal,” Clarke finishes.

“There is not enough time,” Ontari answers, her eyes flashing.

“And whose fault is that?” Clarke challenges.

And so Ontari glares at her for a long moment before she grunts out a curse and slams the door shut in Clarke’s face. 

“They will be done,” Ontari calls out through the door. “Now go.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke’s feet clip against the stone. Her thoughts turn to the conversation she is sure to have in the next few moments and she knows she feels the anticipation, the eagerness and the thrill that strums through her mind. Torvun walks besides her, too, his cut stitched and lathered in paste. And Ontari grumbles quietly under her breath, her morning’s distraction having left her with little time to eat before Clarke had summoned her. But she smiles as they pass Entani who walks in the opposite direction, her duty-free afternoon already started, and Clarke can’t help but to smile slightly as she hears Ontari curse the healer out before she can get too far.

They enter the atrium then, and Clarke eyes the ever constant flame that burns in the room’s centre. And as she looks up and into the sky through the windows that sit high in the ceiling, Clarke thinks she senses the shifting of the season, the warming of the days and the melting of the snow. Clarke nods to a number of guards they pass, and she sees a group of seconds who gaze at her as she passes, the firsts with them quick to bow their heads and to prod the seconds to do the same. 

Clarke comes to a stop before the large double doors and she lets her mind settle and her shoulders square. She feels Ontari shift slightly, the woman quickly patting down her furs as she glances once to Torvun’s face only to grimace at the way the paste smears into his beard and as it ruins the braids that drape down his chest.

The doors to the throne room open then, and Clarke waits until they finish groaning before she begins to walk forwards, her guard detail moving with her as she advances. Their steps fill the room and as she passes a particular part of the wall she can’t help but to let her gaze linger for a moment longer before she turns her attention back to the other end of the room.

And so she comes to a stop before the throne, and she lets her gaze fall to Roan who sits before her, his eyes meeting hers for a moment. Clarke bows then, and she feels the others with her lower themselves onto a knee, too, and she waits until the sounds of their furs rustling cease before she raises slowly, her eyes moving to the guards that stand close by Roan’s side. She spots Echo there, too, the woman’s eyes moving from person to person who stands before her.

“Clarke,” Roan begins as he leans forward, his voice a familiar gravel that lifts just slightly at the end of her name. 

“King Roan,” Clarke answers as she meets his gaze. “You wished to see me?” she asks.

“Yes,” Roan says as his finger begins to tap against the stone of the throne’s armrest. “We received an answer last night,” he begins. “Azgeda is invited to Polis to reaffirm its commitment to the Coalition,” and Clarke watches as Roan lets his gaze dance over those before him. 

“We are to be escorted to Polis by the Trikru still here?” Clarke asks.

“Yes,” Roan says simply. “There are some clans that demand Azgeda do more for the Coalition given the actions and the turmoil that has befallen our clan as of late,” and Roan sneers slightly, but Clarke thinks it more annoyance than anger. 

“You wish for me to send a message?” Clarke asks, and she thinks she already knows where Roan goes with this. “For me to ensure Azgeda is not taken advantage of?” 

“Yes,” Roan says simply. 

“I can do that,” and Clarke shrugs, and she can’t help but to recognise the familiarity of the request, of the actions and events that may happen. But she thinks this time it won’t be so deadly, so secret and hostile. And Clarke thinks that this time she finds it not so annoying to be doing what she can for the people. 

“Good,” and Roan tilts his head in thought. “All but Clarke leave us,” he says then.

And so Clarke watches as Ontari and Torvun send her one last look before they bow and begin to leave the throne room amongst the warriors that guard both Clarke and Roan.

“The clans annoy me,” Roan sighs once the last of the warriors exit.

“They annoy me, too,” Clarke agrees as she crosses her arms. 

“They try my patience,” and Roan stands as he steps towards her. “My spies tell me that they think Azgeda is unstable given that you defeated my mother only to bow to me almost immediately,” and he shrugs. 

“Azgeda do not see it that way,” Clarke says.

“Azgeda are not the ones who seem to think my hold on the clan questionable.”

“I’ll make them think twice,” Clarke reassures him. “That’s why I’m going to Polis, I’m assuming?” 

“Yes,” and Roan smiles. “You have my permission to go as far as you wish as long as you do not threaten war and open conflict,” and he shrugs as he begins to pace back and forth slowly.

“So I can drop some ambassadors off the top of Polis tower?” Clarke jokes.

“Only if you are not caught,” Roan answers with a smile. 

Clarke laughs quietly then, and she watches as Roan begins to move to a table that sits behind his throne.

“This is for you,” Roan calls out as he turns, parcel in hand as he begins to move back to her.

“What is it?” Clarke asks as she takes in the large bundle in his arms. 

“Open it,” Roan says simply. 

And so Clarke takes the parcel and begins to open it cautiously. And she can’t help but to smile, and perhaps to feel just a little sense of warmth fill her heart as her eyes fall to the dark pelt cradled in her arms, to the skull that sits gleaming atop it.

“You found my skull,” she says as she looks up at Roan.

“Yes,” and Roan smiles lightly as he returns to his throne. “There is more,” Roan adds.

Clarke looks back into the pelt then, and she reaches in to a small lump and as her fingers close around it she can’t help but to gasp slightly as she draws her hand free. 

“Thank you,” she says as she meets Roan’s gaze.

“It is yours, Clarke,” Roan says simply, but Clarke sees him incline his head and gesture for her to don her belongings. 

And so Clarke places the pelt on the ground at her feet for a moment as she straps her father’s watch to her wrist, the weight of it familiar and comforting. 

“You are Wanheda, Commander of Death, Mountain Slayer, Champion of Azgeda, You fell Kwin Nia in single combat,” Roan says simply. “Ensure the clans do not forget it.”

And so Clarke smiles at Roan as she clasps the pelt over her shoulders, the weight of the skull a familiar presence behind her head as she bows before she turns to leave.

 

* * *

 

Clarke’s horse rides easily, the swaying of its gait enough send her into a quiet trance of sorts as she considers whatever actions and arguments she is sure will await her in the days to come. She looks up into the sky though, and as she eyes the sun and the distance it still has before it reaches its highest, she thinks that she looks forward to whatever is to come. 

She turns her attention back to Ontari and Entani then, and she listens as both women bicker about something that she missed in her drifting thoughts. Torvun pulls his horse closer to hers though, and she looks up at him to see the man smile slightly.

“Not long now,” Torvun says simply as he gestures out at the shimmering of Polis in the far distance.

“No,” Clarke answers with a smile. “Not long now,” and she knows from the way Torvun eyes her that he speaks not just of arriving at Polis. Of not just beginning her new role. “You think they’ll like Roan sending so many warriors?” Clarke finishes.

“They will not,” Torvun says. “But you are Wanheda,” and he shrugs. “They will do little as long as our numbers do not exceed what is allowed in the capital,” and he sighs as Ontari’s laugh fills the air. 

“It’s weird,” Clarke shrugs as she turns to see Entani glowering. “I think this is the first time I’ve been through these forests without having to worry about Mountain Men or reapers.”

Torvun shrugs in answer, and Clarke watches as he scratches his beard as he ducks under a low branch.

“Perhaps the peace will last,” and Torvun glances over to the Trikru warriors who ride with them, “at least with King Roan in control of Azgeda, Trikru and Azgeda relations have been less tense.”

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees and she follows his gaze to see Costia riding at the forefront of the Trikru warriors, Ryder, her personal guard close by her side as he looks out into the trees.

 

* * *

 

Clarke feels the smile spread more openly across her lips as she sees Polis gates stand out before her. She senses the shifting in the air, too, and she knows the Azgeda with her sit a little straighter, a little more proudly atop their horses as they form themselves into neater rows as they continue riding along the main path towards the open gates.

Clarke pulls the skull over her face then, and she lets the weight settle itself fully before she glances to Torvun who eyes it for a long moment.

“Can’t let them think we’re pushovers,” Clarke says simply, and she sees Torvun smirk as he turns back to face forward as they continue to ride at the forefront of the Azgeda warriors. 

A horn echoes out then and Clarke feels the Trikru who ride on either side of Azgeda forces breathe out a little, the time spent in Azgeda lands clearly tiring, and their return to Polis, to Trikru lands a welcomed thing. Clarke sees Ontari raise a hand easily from the corner of her eye, and an Azgeda horn echoes out in answer and she knows the last stretch of their journey will soon end.

They crest one last small hill then, and Clarke sees warriors lining the walls of Polis, she sees many looking their way, and she sees the banners of each clan waving in the wind as warriors and civilians alike gather to see the Azgeda’s arrival.

Clarke raises her hand then, and the Azgeda who ride behind her come to a stop.

“We come as honoured guests to Polis,” Clarke says, her voice carrying over the wind to the Azgeda who remain quiet. “Many think our clan weak given what has happened,” and she sees a few Azgeda scowl, she sees a few sneer and a few puff their chests out. “But we are not,” and she lowers her hand, lets it fall to her side. “We make no trouble but we will not let Azgeda be pushed around. We will not let clans take from us what they do not deserve,” and she sees heads nod, she sees acknowledgement in eyes. “You will act as though King Roan walks besides you and you will honour your clan,” and Clarke sweeps her gaze over the Azgeda one last time. “Is that understood?”

Clarke sees heads nod and she hears the soft murmurs of acknowledgement and so she turns her horse back to Polis, only one last stretch of land separating the Azgeda from the gates that lie open in wait.

 

* * *

 

It’s odd, Clarke finds, to be riding down the main street of Polis. People watch, many hang out of windows, line the streets and chatter away quietly. But it’s odd because, despite the sound, she thinks a silence settles over the city, and she knows it to be an uncertainty for the days to come, they know not if this changing of power within Azgeda bodes well for the Coalition, or merely signals the collapse of a once great nation.

But Clarke pushes her thoughts aside, she lets her mind turn to the present and away from futures uncertain. And she smiles. She smiles because she rounds the last slight bend in the main road and she finds the main entrance to Polis tower awaiting her. Warriors line the entrance, Polis guards and warriors from the other clans watch quietly as the Azgeda forces slow, as they come to a stop and as they begin to dismount. 

Clarke feels the ground beneath her as she slides off her horse, and she nods just once to a young second who takes its reins before directing the horse to the stables. 

But Clarke takes in one last breath before she turns to face the small group of warriors that approaches, she squares her shoulders and she begins the short walk to meet them half way.

And Clarke can’t help but to smile behind her skull, and she knows the smile is seen, she knows she feels the eagerness of their reunion, the months spent separated by duty and distance enough to leave both feeling anxious, despite the awkwardness and trials that had plagued their pairing in their last moments. 

But Clarke comes to a pause, she breathes in deeply, holds it for long enough that the shaking in her fingers lessens, and then she meets the woman’s eyes before she bows her head and kneels.

“Hello, Commander,” Clarke says as she rises.

And Lexa smiles, just slightly, just enough that Clarke knows only she sees it.

“Hello, ambassador.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke’s eyes open slowly, and it takes her a moment to remember where she lies. As she looks around herself she thinks she feels the last tendrils of the dream recede and lessen the hold on her thoughts. And it’s not that she enjoys waking so early. But she knows it preferable to the dreams she knows herself to have been living. 

Clarke sits and she lets the furs bundle at her waist as she looks around her quarters. She finds them familiar, too, the time she had spent in Polis slowly returning to the forefront of her mind. And so she rises. She rises quietly, her feet padding across the cold stone and the soft furs. Clarke glances through the latticework that lines her quarters and she thinks the sun not even ready to rise yet, not even ready to think about its day. But she knows she doesn’t mind the dark, she knows she doesn’t quite recoil from the things the dark had once conjured in her sleeping mind like she used to. And she thinks it because the things she has done were for her people. She knows them to be sacrifices she was willing to accept, willing to embrace. Yet, perhaps she isn’t quite so proud of the role she had in the deaths of so many people. 

Not quite, anyway.

But it was worth it. She knows that much, she knows she need not argue with her mind, she knows she need not wage conflict with her slumbering thoughts. 

Clarke begins moving through her quarters, she begins lighting candles, her feet tracing a familiar path through the furniture that decorates the large room. She wraps a large fur around herself though, if only because the breeze this early and at this height is just a little cold, just a little damp to her flesh, and she thinks it not quite like Azgeda winds, not how they had been cold but fresh, had been a sharp bite to wake her mind. 

And so Clarke finds herself leaning against the railing of her balcony, her gaze happy to wander over the city below her. And she thinks she begins to follow the paths of light that move through the streets, the torches that people carry as they make their way through the city, and she wonders what they may think now, she thinks over what people must assume to be happening in these ambassador meetings, she wonders what the warriors prepare themselves for. 

Clarke shakes her thoughts though, and she turns her gaze upwards in search of a pattern in the clouds, in search of a star that could help replace, redirect, refocus her mind.

She hears the quiet groaning then, and she knows the sound to be the elevator that rises, that brings a presence up to this level of Polis tower. Clarke listens to the sound increase, she listens as it comes to a grinding halt and she listens as the doors open and as feet step free. 

Clarke thinks she can tell the moment when Lexa registers that light flickers out through the cracks in her door, and Clarke knows she senses when Lexa makes a choice, when she changes direction and begins to approach.

And so Clarke barely turns, barely feels surprised at the knock on her door.

“Clarke?” and her name comes out quietly, it comes out cautiously.

“Come in,” Clarke calls out, and she doesn’t turn to face the door, doesn’t feel the need to.

And it opens, and Clarke thinks she senses Lexa look around in search of her.

“You could not sleep?” Lexa asks as she begins to approach, the swaying of her coat filling the quiet that settles around them.

“No,” Clarke answers as she feels Lexa come to a pause besides her. “I wake this early now,” she finishes with a shrug.

And she thinks Lexa understands.

“I was called to meet with some ambassadors,” Lexa says in explanation of why she remains dressed at such an early hour.

“They wanted to catch you off guard, didn’t they?” Clarke asks.

“Yes, Clarke,” and Lexa sighs quietly. “Some are more anxious to begi—”

But Clarke turns to her, and she places her hand atop Lexa’s.

“It’s not even daybreak yet,” Clarke begins. “Can we leave that for later?”

And Lexa nods, and Clarke sees her sigh once, just a little thing that seems to lessen the weight on the other woman’s shoulders.

“I made sure Costia was guarded,” Clarke begins quietly, and she knows Lexa wouldn’t bring it up, wouldn’t even approach the topic. “I know you didn’t want to leave her in Azgeda.”

“It was a sensible decision,” Lexa counters, but Clarke knows she senses the woman’s worry.

“There were some who were angry, but given her time in Azgeda she was able to smooth things over for the most part,” and Clarke shrugs awkwardly, and she finds herself still unsure of just how to speak of Costia’s time in captivity. “I think it’ll work given time.”

“Yes,” and Lexa sighs. “If our people are to avoid conflict, then it would be good for our warriors to share in experiences more closely.” 

“You don’t have to be so pragmatic, Lexa,” Clarke challenges quietly. “It’ll be good to have Trikru and Azgeda warriors spend time together,” and Clarke nudges the other woman’s shoulder. “Look what’s happened between you and me,” and Clarke smiles just a little at the thought of Ontari and Costia, and for now she thinks she will keep whatever exists between both women a secret. At least for now. If only because she isn’t so sure how Lexa would react. 

“Thank you,” Lexa says though. “For making sure she was ok.”

“Hey,” and Clarke nudges Lexa once more. “You care for her. And I like her, too, and she’s back in Trikru lands now, so no more worrying,” and Clarke smiles. “We all deserve a little less worry every now and then.”

“Yes,” but as Clarke watches, she thinks she knows Lexa still needs a little time, still needs to accept her actions, her guilt at whatever thoughts had lingered in her mind at Costia’s return.

“It’s nice,” Clarke begins instead, and she sees Lexa meet her words with a careful raising of an eyebrow. “It’s nice being able to ride through Trikru lands without having to worry about Mountain Men or Reapers or Nia’s games.”

“Yes,” and Lexa’s face relaxes a little further, and Clarke thinks she feels the tension in the woman’s jaw ease just a little more. “It is nice, Clarke.” 

They fall into a silence then, and as Clarke lets her gaze turn to the skies overhead she feels a sense of longing for something different, for something a little less restrictive than her role as ambassador, but only for a little while, for she doesn’t quite mind fighting for her people, making sure they survive and have the best chance at living.

“You know, Lexa,” Clarke says as she turns to face the woman. “I don’t even know how to swim,” and she sees Lexa’s head tilt just a little in thought, the moon’s light shining just a slight touch across her cheek. 

“That is a shame, Clarke,” Lexa begins, and Clarke knows she sees the smile beginning to spread a little more openly across Lexa’s lips. 

“Perhaps someone should teach me,” and Clarke raises an eyebrow. 

“Perhaps,” Lexa says. 

“Maybe I’ll ask Cos—”

“No,” and Clarke coughs on the laugh she tries to stifle. 

But she finds herself glad that they can joke of whatever it is that exists between the three of them. If only because it lets her know they’ll be ok. 

“I wonder who will teach me, then,” and Clarke hums as she thinks, as she looks up into the sky in thought. “Anya? Gustus?” 

“I will,” Lexa says simply, her eyes hardening in the light, and Clarke can’t quite tell if Lexa knows she jokes now, she can’t quite tell if Lexa understands the jest in her tone. 

But Clarke smiles as she realises she doesn’t quite care. 

“So,” and Clarke nudges Lexa’s shoulder. “It’s a date?” 

And Lexa meets her gaze, her eyes softening as she thinks over the phrasing, as she tries to understand what Clarke says. And Clarke goes to explain, goes to add a little more infor—

“Yes, Clarke,” Lexa nods. “It is a date.”


End file.
